Chapter 3 - The Mid-Ocean Interrogation
The maritime security holding room on Deck B of The Azure Sovereign smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone. It was a windowless, functional box made of reinforced steel bulkheads, designed to hold unruly passengers until the ship reached its next port of call.
Chief Marcus Vance—no relation to Gregory, much to the security chief’s visible relief—sat behind a bolted metal desk, tapping a stylus against a digital tablet. He was a retired naval commander with graying temples, a posture like a telephone pole, and eyes that had seen every flavor of wealthy idiot that walked off a luxury liner.
Across from him, nursing an ice pack pressed firmly against a distinctly crooked nose, sat Gregory Hartman. His tuxedo jacket was gone, his shirt was stained a dark, dried brown around the collar, and his expression alternated between pathetic whining and seething, impotent rage.
“I want my lawyer,” Gregory snarled for the fifth time in ten minutes. “Do you have any idea who my father is? My father will have this entire cruise line audited into bankruptcy by Tuesday morning!”
Chief Vance didn’t look up from his tablet. He simply sighed, a long, weary sound that carried forty years of dealing with entitled men. “Son, your father could own the moon, and it wouldn't change the fact that you’re currently floating in international waters aboard a vessel registered under a maritime code that grants me absolute authority to detain violent offenders without a hearing for up to seventy-two hours. Furthermore...”
Vance finally lifted his eyes, fixing Gregory with a flat, unimpressed stare. “...our security cameras in the honeymoon suite corridors recorded your entire conversation through the smart-lock audio log, including your lovely monologue about breaking wild horses and keeping your wife in line. It’s currently being packaged and encrypted for the FBI field office in Miami.”
Gregory’s jaw dropped. The last of his bluster evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sickly pallor. “That... that’s an invasion of privacy! That’s confidential!”
“In a private suite, sure,” Vance replied smoothly. “In a commercial cruise liner with automated security compliance software? Not so much. You broadcasted your intentions to the whole hallway.”
The heavy steel door of the holding room slid open with a pneumatic hiss.
Ashlynn stepped inside. She had changed out of her torn wedding dress into a simple black turtleneck and dark jeans she had retrieved from her secondary duffel bag. Her hair was tied back in a tight, military-grade braid. She looked less like a panicked newlywed and more like an intelligence officer arriving to debrief a hostile combatant.
She didn't look at Gregory. Instead, she walked straight to the metal desk and laid down a folded manila document folder.
“What’s this, Mrs. Hartman?” Chief Vance asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Not Mrs. Hartman anymore, Chief,” Ashlynn corrected calmly, leaning against the edge of the desk. “Before we boarded this ship, my legal team in Chicago filed a contingency pre-nuptial ratification document tied directly to my personal corporate holdings, stipulating that any act of physical intimidation, domestic assault, or felony coercion committed within the first forty-eight hours of marriage triggers an immediate, unilateral annulment with full forfeiture of all joint asset claims.”
Gregory shot up from his chair, his chair scraping violently against the steel floor. “You planned this! You set me up!”
“I didn't set you up, Gregory,” Ashlynn turned her head slowly, her cold gray eyes pinning him to the spot. “I just knew who you really were beneath the expensive suits and the polite dinners. You spent a year playing the devoted fiancé because you thought I was soft. You never bothered to ask why a woman with my background left active duty to work in corporate risk management. People like you always underestimate women who don't scream.”
Chief Vance suppressed a small, appreciative smirk, clearing his throat to maintain professional decorum. “Well, the paperwork appears legally sound, Ms. Reed. Given that we’re currently three hundred miles off the coast of Cuba, our next scheduled stop is the Cayman Islands in thirty-six hours. We can transfer Mr. Hartman directly to local authorities there to await extradition to Miami.”
“No,” Ashlynn said firmly. “I want him on the next launch back to the Florida mainland.”
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Vance blinked. “That’s a twelve-hour trip back by high-speed maritime transfer, Ms. Reed. It’s expensive, and it requires Coast Guard coordination.”
“Send the bill to his father’s real estate firm,” Ashlynn said without blinking. “I’m not spending another hour on the same ship as a man who brought a baseball bat to his own honeymoon. And trust me... his father will pay every cent just to keep this out of the national press.”
