Chapter 1 - THE GLASS IN MY HAND
Victor tore the medication case from my fingers so violently that one of my diamond bracelets snapped against my wrist.
“Give it back.”
He laughed.
The Blackwood Foundation gala was still roaring around us—string quartet, champagne tower, donors beneath crystal chandeliers, three hundred people pretending not to hear my husband humiliating me beside the fireplace.
“Your heart condition is a scam to avoid drinking!”
Then he threw the case into the flames.
I moved before thinking.
“Victor!”
The plastic shell struck a burning log.
Foil blistered.
My emergency tablets disappeared beneath orange light.
I felt the first tightening in my chest before the case had fully melted.
Not pain exactly.
Pressure.
A sensation I knew too well.
“Victor, I need those pills!”
My husband seized a glass from a waiter’s tray and pushed it into my hand.
“Then hydrate.”
“I need my medication.”
“You need to stop embarrassing me.”
Arthur Blackwood watched from beside the head table.
My father-in-law was sixty-eight, elegant, silver-haired, and capable of making cruelty sound administrative.
He did nothing.
Victor forced the glass closer.
“Drink.”
I swallowed because my mouth was dry and my heart had already begun accelerating.
One sip.
Perhaps two.
Then the rhythm changed.
Fast became violent.
The ballroom lights stretched.
My fingers lost strength.
I heard glass strike marble.
Then realized it was my glass.
My knees folded beside the champagne tower.
Three crystal flutes fell with me.
Guests screamed.
My cheek touched cold flooring.
Victor stood above me.
His face looked distant.
My lips tingled.
Breathing became shallow.
I heard him laugh.
“Look! Even the blue lips are part of her act!”
Someone moved through the crowd.
Fast.
A man in a valet uniform.
He struck Victor in the chest with one hard kick.
Victor crashed backward into an upholstered chair.
The valet dropped beside me.
His coat opened.
Medical scrubs underneath.
I knew that face.
Dr. Adrian Cole.
My cardiologist.
The man Victor had forbidden me to see four months earlier.
Adrian’s fingers found my neck.
“Seraphina, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Do not stand.”
My heartbeat seemed to hammer through his fingertips.
He looked toward the nearest staff member.
“Call emergency services. Tell them congenital arrhythmia with unstable tachycardia.”
Victor struggled upright.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Adrian ignored him.
He glanced toward the fireplace.
“My medication,” I whispered.
“I know.”
Then he reached for the fallen water glass.
A thin layer remained against the bottom.
From beneath his valet coat he removed a small medical pouch.
Victor stopped moving.
Adrian touched a presumptive reagent strip to the residue.
The result changed.
Not a diagnosis.
Not proof.
Enough to change his face.
“This wasn’t just water.”
Arthur turned away.
Too calmly.
He began walking toward the ballroom’s side corridor.
I knew what lay there.
Security control.
“Adrian.”
He looked at me.
“Arthur.”
Adrian followed my gaze.
Then shouted:
“Someone stop him from touching the cameras.”
May you like
Arthur broke into a run.
And that frightened me more than my heart.
