My Lover Drowned Me For Greed: I'm Back To Make Him Suffer

 ​As the freezing, oily water of the harbor filled Vivian Vance’s throat, she didn’t think about her family's lost empire or the millions locked away in frozen bank accounts. She thought about salt. It tasted like old metal. It tasted exactly like the cheap canned soup Marcus Kane had forced her to eat the night before, while he sat across the room eating real meat with the city's new militia leader.

​"Marcus..." she gasped, her wet fingers slipping against the rubber edge of the lifeboat. The ocean underneath her was a black, swirling hole. "Marcus, please. Help me. I can't feel my legs."

​Marcus didn't move to help her. He stood at the front of the small boat, his expensive rain jacket completely clean despite the storm. In his right hand, he held a heavy, rusted iron wrench.

​"Three years, Vivian," Marcus said. He didn't yell, but his voice carried perfectly over the wind. "Three years I played the perfect, loving boyfriend to an orphaned little princess. I listened to you cry. I tucked you into bed. I waited for your twenty-fourth birthday because that was the day your father’s massive trust fund was supposed to unlock."

​He bent down slightly, looking at her with pure disgust.

​"But yesterday was your birthday. And the money stayed locked. You're useless to me now, Vivian. You're just extra weight in a world that’s running out of dry ground."

​"I loved you," she choked out, a wave hitting her in the face. “I gave you everything, everything you asked for.”

​"You were a chore," Marcus said.

​He didn't swing the wrench at her head. That took too much energy. Instead, he brought the heavy iron bar down hard on her left hand, right across her fingers where she was gripping the boat.

​Crack.

​The pain didn't register immediately, just a numb thud followed by her grip giving out completely. He tapped her other knuckles until she had nothing left to hold onto.

​As she fell backward into the freezing water, the last thing she saw was the boat turning around, its motor loud as Marcus drove away. The water pulled her down. Her lungs burned, desperate for air, but there was only salt. She closed her eyes. She had been incredibly stupid, blinded by a liar's fake affection, ignoring every single warning sign because she had been too weak to face reality.

​Then, something grabbed her.

​Two large, rough hands slammed under her arms and yanked.

​Vivian opened her eyes underwater. Through the dark bubbles, she saw a man swimming down for her. He didn't have a jacket on, and across his right shoulder was a huge, ugly, badly stitched scar.

​Julian Cross.

​With a massive shove, Julian hauled her up to the surface. He dragged her body onto a patch of high asphalt near the ruined docks, coughing violently as he collapsed beside her.

​Vivian lay on the gravel, throwing up black seawater. Her vision was turning dark, frost creeping into the edges of her eyes. But she could feel him. Julian was shaking. This guy—the rich, arrogant young master she had publicly humiliated and chased out of the country four years ago—was holding her soaking wet body against his chest.

​His tears felt hot against her freezing skin.

​"I'm sorry," Julian whispered, his voice breaking completely. "I'm sorry... I came too late. Vivian, please don't go."

​Why? she thought as her brain started to shut down. Why him?

​But the darkness took her anyway. She gave up her last breath.

*****

​Vivian sat up with a loud, terrified scream.

​Her hands flew to her throat, her chest heaving as she swallowed huge gulps of air. She expected the taste of oil and salt. Instead, she smelled expensive lavender oil and clean wood.

​She looked around, bewildered. She was sitting in a massive bed with high-end white sheets. The morning sun was pouring through the massive windows of her luxury penthouse.

​On the nightstand, her phone buzzed.

​Monday, May 18, 2026. 08:00 AM.

​One month. She had exactly one month before the weather broke forever and the world ended.

​"A dream," she whispered, her voice trembling.

​She stopped. She looked at her left hand. There were no marks, but when she bent her fingers, a phantom, white-hot ache shot up her arm. The memory of that iron wrench hitting her bones was so loud and real that she turned and threw up right onto the floor.

​It wasn't a dream. It was a second chance.

​Vivian got out of bed, her knees shaking. She stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself. She was twenty-three again. Her skin looked healthy, and her hair was perfect. She looked like a rich girl who had never struggled a day in her life.

​But her eyes were different. The old Vivian had soft, naive eyes. The woman in the mirror now had the cold, sharp look of someone who had survived her own murder.

​Marcus, she thought. She didn't feel sad. She just felt cold.

​She picked up her phone and called her family's real estate broker.

​"Miss Vance! Good morning," the man answered quickly.

​"The modern villa on the western cliffs," Vivian said, keeping her voice completely level. "The one with the steel frame and reinforced glass. Is the buying option still open?"

​"The fortress property? Yes, it is, but it’s five and a half million dollars. Given that your father's primary accounts are currently frozen—"

​"I have a cash portfolio in London," Vivian interrupted. "Draw up the contract today. Use my personal card for the down payment. And put the sale on the public index immediately. Make sure the local news gets a copy."

​"I... understand, Miss Vance. But why the rush?"

​Vivian looked out at the bright blue sky. "I want a sanctuary. Somewhere safe."

​A sanctuary. That was the trap.

​If Marcus saw that she bought a massive, fortified house because she was scared of the recent bad weather reports, his greedy instincts would do the rest of the work for her.

​She hung up and walked into her dad’s private study. She knelt by the bookshelf, pulled away three heavy legal books, and exposed a hidden panel.

​Left twelve. Right forty. Left seven.

​A quiet click echoed. The panel slid back, showing an old laptop and a leather journal with her dad's initials: A.V.

​Vivian opened it, reading the rushed handwriting.

​The Arctic core data is real. The global weather systems are failing. If my accounts stay locked, Vivian, find the 'Anchor' with Cross. He has the other half of the access code. Do not trust the people around you.

​A heavy lump formed in her throat. Her dad had known. And he had explicitly trusted Cross.

The Cross family had been the anchors of the northern industrial sector for three generations, their massive shipping lines and logistics networks acting as the literal lifeblood of the city's trade. For decades, Julian’s father and hers had been inseparable—allies who built their fortunes side-by-side and shared secrets that never left the boardroom. As children, she and Julian had grown up in the shadow of that fierce alliance, running through the very transit yards they were now trying to fortify.

​Julian hadn't just been a family friend; he had been her quiet, intensely protective shadow, the brilliant young master her father always spoke of with immense pride. But when Vivian had blindly turned her back on that legacy, publicly ruining the Cross family's shipping firm to prove her loyalty to Marcus, she hadn't just destroyed an empire—she had shattered a lifelong bond, forcing Julian into a bitter, disgraceful exile. Yet, despite the betrayal that should have made them mortal enemies, her father's encrypted codes proved that the Cross family remained the ultimate, fail-safe lock to humanity's survival network.

​Before she could read more, the heavy door to the study swung open without a knock. Vivian’s reflexes, built from years of dodging Marcus’s temper, took over. She slammed the panel shut, kicked the books back into place, and stood up, instantly turning her face into a picture of helpless grief.

​Marcus stood in the doorway.