Arrived Late to my Husband's 50th Birthday Party.

"He's going for your car!" I yelled to Vanessa.

Vanessa’s eyes widened. "My Maserati? The tracker is active!"

We heard the thunderous roar of the sports car's engine igniting in the garage, followed by the screech of tires as it tore down the coastal highway, away from the syndicate thugs kicking in the front doors upstairs.

"Up the stairs, now!" I whispered fiercely, grabbing Maya's hand while she held Leo. Vanessa didn't hesitate, following us as we slipped out the back of the bedroom and up the narrow servant's staircase, hiding in the dark pantry just as three massive men in dark suits stormed the master suite.

We held our breath as they shouted in Russian, kicking over furniture, finding the shattered glass door. They saw the blood, assuming Richard had fled down the cliff. Within minutes, they were gone, rushing out to hunt him in the dark.

The house fell eerily silent.

Vanessa pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. "He's heading south. Toward the marina."

"He has a boat," Maya whispered, her voice trembling. "He bought a yacht last year. He called it 'The Eleanor'."

A sick joke to the end. "We have to beat him there," I said. "Vanessa, do you have another way out of here?"

"My driver is parked a mile down the road," she said, her hatred for Richard uniting us in a bizarre alliance.

We moved quickly through the shadows of the ravaged house. As we walked, I looked at Maya, holding her son tight. She had nothing. Richard had stolen her youth, her trust, and left her in the crosshairs of a mob. I made a silent vow then and there: Richard would not destroy this child.

We reached the town car. I gave the driver the marina's address.

"Mara," I said, calling my attorney on speakerphone. "Richard is heading to his yacht at the South Bay Marina. He has a bag of cash. Call the police. Tell them the man who emptied the Vale Meridian pension fund is trying to flee international waters."

"Already on it," Mara replied. "But Eleanor, there's a problem. The yacht isn't registered to him."

"Then who is it registered to?" I asked, a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"You," Mara said grimly. "And the harbor master just logged a departure request under your name. If that boat leaves the dock with the embezzled cash on board, the feds won't just think you're an accomplice. They'll think you're the mastermind."

He wasn't just escaping. He was framing me.

"Step on it," I told the driver.

We pulled into the marina just as the massive, sleek white yacht began to unmoor from slip 42. Richard was on the deck, struggling to untie the heavy ropes.

I didn't wait for the car to stop. I threw open the door and sprinted down the wooden dock, the cold sea spray stinging my face.

"Richard!" I screamed over the roar of the boat's engines.

He looked up, freezing. He had the rope in his hands. He was five feet away. All he had to do was drop it and hit the throttle.

But as he looked at me, his eyes widened in terror, staring over my shoulder.