It started with the sound — a muffled, rushing roar beneath the floorboards. You stirred, thinking it part of a dream, until the ship gave a shudder so deep it rattled the glass on the vanity. Then came the cold. A slick whisper against your bare foot when you swung your legs from the bed. You blinked into the darkness and realized it wasn’t just cold—it was wet.

Water was seeping under the cabin door.

Before you could move, the door burst open and your fiancé stumbled in, eyes wide, hair disheveled. “Get up!” he gasped, sloshing through the spreading pool. “Darling, you have to get up right now!”

“What—what’s happening?”

He grabbed your arms, hauling you upright. “She’s struck something. Ice, they think. The lower decks are flooding.”

Your mother appeared behind him, already dressed, her nightgown hem dark with seawater. “The steward said it was nothing—then the corridor—oh, God, it’s coming in faster.”

The corridor outside was a river. Stewards shouted, boots splashing, their polished composure drowned by alarm. Somewhere below, machinery screamed as metal tore against metal. The ship shivered beneath your feet, her heartbeat breaking apart.

You threw on your robe, but the moment your slippers hit the floor, the icy water clawed up your legs. The shock of it stole your breath. “It’s freezing!” you gasped.

“Move!” your fiancé barked, pulling you toward the staircase. “We have to get above.”

The grand staircase that had gleamed so proudly hours ago now echoed with chaos—people clutching children, clutching jewels, clutching anything that felt like safety. You clung to the polished banister, the world tilting as the ship leaned forward. The crystal chandelier swayed like a pendulum.

Behind you, a rush of water thundered up the stairs. You turned—and saw it coming. A gray, roaring wall bursting through the lower landing, swallowing everything in its path. A woman screamed. Trunks and chairs spun like toys in the torrent.

Your fiancé shoved you ahead. “Run!”

You ran. Slipped. Your mother’s hand caught your wrist, nails digging into your skin as she pulled you upright. You reached the next deck, lungs burning, your nightclothes soaked through. The air was sharp, filled with steam and salt and fear.

Crewmen herded people toward the open hatches. “Lifejackets on! Quickly now!”

“Are we sinking?” you asked, voice trembling. No one answered.

The deck above was chaos—hundreds crowding under the biting stars. The sea was rising, devouring the ship from below. You could hear it, a steady grinding, the groan of something impossibly large dying by inches.

Your fiancé forced a lifejacket over your shoulders. His hands shook as he tied the cords. “Listen to me,” he said. “You’re going to the boats with your mother.”

“You’re coming too.”

“They’re not allowing men yet.”

“I don’t care—”

He kissed you then, sudden and desperate, tasting of salt and cold. “You’ll live,” he whispered against your hair. “Promise me that.”

The ship lurched. People screamed. One of the funnels sent a rain of soot across the deck. Somewhere aft, a band still played — thin, trembling notes fighting to stay alive against the wind.