The conversation shifted. We moved toward the next investor—a woman in a tallic grey gown with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. I made introductions. I said the right things. Smiled. Listened.
But sothing was... off.
My pulse began to stutter. Not fast—just uneven. Like a clock hand catching on sothing it shouldn’t. My skin felt warr than before, like soone had turned the temperature up by a few degrees.
I blinked hard.
The room tilted, barely. Like a ship in the gentlest wave. My hands felt too warm in my gloves. My collar, too tight.
I ran my tongue along the inside of my cheek. Dry.
Too dry.
"...Pardon?" I asked the woman before , her words suddenly arriving through a tunnel.
She smiled indulgently, repeating sothing about Shanlhai’s interest in Eden’s northern wing.
I nodded, slower this ti, trying to focus.
Another blink.
The edges of the room pulsed. The lights flared too brightly—then dimd just a breath too much. The violin in the background seed to stretch, warping just slightly out of rhythm.
I shifted my weight. My gloves now felt like sandpaper.
What the hell was—?
A low hum settled at the base of my skull, not painful, but insistent. My skin prickled beneath the fabric of my jacket.
Twenty minutes.
Had it been twenty minutes since I drank it?
"Excuse ," I murmured, nodding politely as I disengaged from the conversation.
Clara fell into step beside . "Adrien," she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath ghosted my ear. "You’re flushed. Maybe it’s too warm in here?"
I straightened, tugging at my cufflinks to disguise the subtle shake in my hands. My body rarely betrayed . I could drink half a decanter of scotch and hold a boardroom hostage with a single look. But right now...
Sothing was not adding up.
"No," I said flatly. "Just—" I stopped. What had I been about to say?
My mouth felt dry. Not just my mouth. My throat, my tongue, even the inside of my cheeks—dry like paper left too close to a radiator.
I reached for another glass from a passing tray, sothing clear this ti. Water. It cooled my throat, but not the heat blooming under my skin.
It wasn’t adrenaline. I knew adrenaline. This was different.
My palms itched. My fingers twitched, needing to do sothing—touch, grip, anchor.
Noise blurred at the edges. Laughter turned to low hums. Voices slowed just a little too much. Soone brushed past and it felt like static against my suit sleeve. Did she drug ?
Clara’s voice cut through, soft and sweet like a tuning fork. "You sure you’re okay?"
I didn’t look at her.
My heart wasn’t racing, but my skin was—every nerve alert, lit up like soone had run a live wire just beneath the surface. My breathing ca shallow. Too shallow. I adjusted my collar againn and found it clung to my neck like it was made of glue.
She rested a tentative hand on my forearm. "Why don’t we step away for a bit? You’ve been working the room nonstop."
I gave her a sidelong glance. Clara—always poised, always polished. Tonight her ruby gown clung to her like spilled wine, and every smile she offered the crowd was perfectly asured.
But I saw the flicker in her eyes. Too bright. Anticipation masked as concern.
"I’m fine," I said flatly.
She tilted her head, that childhood familiarity slipping into her tone. "Adrien, you’re pale. You’re... shaking." Her fingers brushed my sleeve lightly. "Just a minute to sit. That’s all."
I hesitated. The heat in my bloodstream pulsed again—low, persistent, unnatural.
Clara took my silence as consent and guided away from the murmuring crowd.
I let her, calculating. Caron’s words echoed in my head—People reveal themselves when they think no one’s watching.
We entered the elevator.
The lights inside buzzed faintly above , casting a golden hue over the floor. I closed my eyes for a second—just a second—and when I opened them again, Clara was watching with a softness I couldn’t read.
When the doors slid open, she walked with down a quiet corridor lined with gilt-frad portraits, each step echoing on the floor. My pulse throbbed at my temples. The warmth was spreading rapidly, thick and molten, like fire laced through my veins.
Clara’s pace was unhurried, practiced. Like she had all the ti in the world. She glanced back occasionally, her smile softening into sothing warr than it had been all night. Like she was guiding to safety.
"This way," Clara whispered, slipping through an open doorway.
The room was secluded, dimly lit by a crystal chandelier.
"You’ll feel better here," she said, closing the door behind us.
I didn’t answer. I moved to the far side of the room, leaning one hand on the carved mantelpiece. My breath was heavier now, dragging through my chest like smoke. My usual stillness—the razor control I built myself on—was fraying strand by strand.
"What did you put in that drink?" My voice ca out low, dangerous.
Clara froze for half a second, then composed herself with a small laugh. "Adrien... don’t be paranoid. It’s just a cocktail. You need to relax."
Relax.
The word sounded obscene.
She approached slowly, her heels silent on the thick rug. "You work too hard. You’re always on edge. I just... I thought maybe you needed a night where you didn’t have to think about every threat in the room."
I lifted my head, my gaze cutting into her. "So you drug ?"
Her lips parted, feigning shock. "I didn’t—"
"Don’t lie to ." My voice cracked like a whip, but even as I tried to summon fury, my muscles trembled, heavy and uncooperative. My body burned. My skin hypersensitive, every brush of fabric sparking down my nerves.
She faltered only briefly, then shifted tactics. Stepping closer, her expression softened into sothing she must have thought passed for devotion. "Adrien..." Her fingers hovered near my chest. "I’d never hurt you. I just... wanted you to see . To see how much I... I love you."
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