His father, John Sr., a portly man with a face flushed from years of fine food and casual cruelty, let out a braying laugh. “Give them a break, son. It’s an act of charity, having them here. A cultural exchange.” His mother, Eleanor, a woman as thin and cold as a shard of ice, simply smiled, a tight, bloodless expression that was far more damning than any insult.

The simmering tension of the evening, which had been building through a hundred smaller cuts—condescending questions about my job, feigned surprise at Clara’s knowledge of fine wine, a deliberate “forgetting” of my name—finally boiled over. John, fueled by an endless river of champagne and his own deep, cavernous insecurity, saw an opportunity for a spectacular, final act of humiliation. He approached his own wife, Clara, who had turned away from the group and was leaning against the railing, trying to find a moment of peace in the cool night air.

The Husband’s Cruelty: With a sickening, theatrical laugh that drew the attention of everyone on the aft deck, John—her husband, her supposed partner—shoved Clara, hard and with both hands, over the low, polished railing.

She cried out, a sharp, choked sound of pure shock and terror. She plunged into the cold, black, unforgiving water of the open sea with a sharp splash that seemed to echo in the sudden, stunned silence.