Page 147 of Blind Prophet

Disbelief etches the question. Her incredulity means she trusts me. And she should.

“Caroline, you don’t know him at all, do you?” Geoffrey scoffs. “I know exactly what path he will choose. And deep down, you do, too. That’s why you left him.”

Geoffrey believes he’s won. He’s studied me. He believes he can predict what I will do and how I will behave.

He believes I’ll play along to protect our father. To protect our family reputation. That I’ll willingly step into a life of politics and continue growing our wealth. He truly believes he’s a prophet, but he’s blind to all that matters.

Luke holds his hand to his ear, listening.

“We need to go,” he says to Geoffrey.

The suit who accompanied me heads out in the direction we came from.

Geoffrey nods. My gaze roams over him, tracking the gelled hair, the doughy, vein-riddled skin below his eyes, his slight paunch, and his hunched shoulders from years of poor posture. He doesn’t appear to be carrying a gun, and if that’s the case, he’s reliant on the men he has hired.

Luke reaches for Caroline, and I slam into him, pinning his arm holding the gun against the side of the counter.

“Hands off my wife.”

It’s a growl and a declaration.

Luke pushes back, and I throw a left hook while gripping his wrist, knocking the gun from his grip. My knuckles connect with the solid ridge of his jaw, sending a shock of pain up my arm, but his head barely moves. Military training. This was a mistake.

Luke drives his knee into my ribs with crushing force. White-hot pain erupts through my side as I struggle to maintain my hold on his wrist. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

“You’re dead,” he hisses, his breath hot against my face.

We circle each other, fists raised. My breath comes in ragged gasps. Luke bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, professionally balanced, while I desperately scan the boat for anything I can use as a weapon. A heavy vase. A knife. Anything.

Geoffrey backs away in the direction his guard went, his face a mask of clinical interest. He’s watching us like we’re a lab experiment.

Luke moves with trained precision, feinting left before launching himself at me. His weight crashes into my chest like a battering ram. We go down hard, the polished deck slamming against my spine. The impact forces air from my lungs in an agonizing rush.

I’m on my back, fists pummeling his sides, but it’s like hitting concrete. He pins me with practiced ease, his weight immobilizing me as he draws back for a finishing blow. His eyes are cold, professional. This is just a job to him.

Time slows. I see Caroline behind him, Luke’s gun gripped in her hands. Her face pale but resolute, arms extended in a perfect shooter’s stance.

The gunshot doesn’t sound like in movies—it’s sharper, more violent, a crack that seems to tear the air itself. My ears ring with sudden deafness.

Luke’s expression changes in an instant—from focused rage to blank surprise. The tension in his body releases all at once. Something warm and wet sprays across my face. Metallic. Copper. Blood.

He collapses onto me, suddenly deadweight. The crushing pressure of a human body, no longer animated by consciousness. I feel his last breath exhale against my neck, warm then cooling.

I push him off with trembling hands. He rolls to the side, limbs loose like a discarded marionette. Bright red blood blooms across the pristine white flooring, expanding in a perfect circle. A small, neat hole has punctured his temple, almost surgically precise, with a trickle of blood flowing from the dark opening.

The silence that follows is deafening. Just the sound of waves against the hull and my own thundering heartbeat.

Caroline stands perfectly still, the gun now pointed at Geoffrey, her hands steady while mine shake uncontrollably. Her face is a professional mask, but her eyes are wide with the enormity of what she’s just done.

Geoffrey’s as ashen as I feel. He, like me, has probably never witnessed death outside a sanitized hospital room. This is different. Raw. Final.

“I’ll go. For now,” he says, taking a step back. “Nothing changes.”

“No?” I’d say everything has changed. He can’t threaten me with an edited video, and we now have a gun trained on him. One of his hired guns is dead. He didn’t think this through.

“I know which path you’ll take. You’ll protect your reputation.” There’s a notable tremor in his voice, and his backward movement weakens his meaning.

He didn’t plan this. He didn’t foresee it.

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