The water in the country club pool was unnervingly stagnant, a turquoise mirror that seemed to hold its breath, concealing the predators lurking beneath the surface of high society. I, Elena Vance, was eight months deep into a pregnancy that felt like carrying a boulder of pure anticipation. My ankles were swollen to the size of water balloons, and I sat perched on a designer lounge chair, acutely aware of the vitriolic, judgmental stares from the “trophy wives” who circled the perimeter like sharks in Chanel.
My husband, Julian Thorne, the enigmatically handsome CEO of Thorne Enterprises, was ostensibly occupied with a “critical business summit” at the poolside bar. I watched him from a distance—the way he tilted his head, the practiced ease of his charismatic smile. I had spent seven years believing that smile was my sanctuary.
Suddenly, a violent splash shattered the tranquility. It wasn’t the rhythmic sound of a playful dive; it was the dull, frantic thud of a body in distress. I scanned the deep end. A small girl, perhaps six or seven, was plummeting toward the drain like a discarded stone. Her tiny arms flailed in a desperate, silent prayer for oxygen.
No one moved. The lifeguard was transfixed by his smartphone, a digital zombie. The mothers around the pool remained frozen in their choreographed poses, mimosas poised halfway to their lips.
