In the twelfth year of our marriage, my husband Alistair took me on an exotic journey to a small coastal country in West Africa-Equatorial Guinea.

I was captivated by its primitive and wild beauty, while he valued its remoteness and isolation.

In the early hours, we boarded a dilapidated motor sailboat to set out to sea, aiming to watch the sunrise over the deep ocean. The helm was in the hands of a local fisherman, his bare, dark, glistening torso rippling with muscles.

When the coastline completely vanished from view, leaving only the boundless deep blue ocean around us, my phone screen suddenly lit up, a text message piercing my sight:

Don’t go to sea. Your husband wants to kill you.

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