Chapter 6 Madeline
Madeline
I stood in front of the full-length mirror, the delicate straps of the pink stilettos wrapping high above my ankles with a bow. They were ridiculous. Impractical. And perfect. The kind of thing worn by women with too much confidence and nowhere to be.
I tilted one foot, admiring the way the curve of the heel lifted my calf. They were impossibly tall.
I picked up my phone and lifted it toward the mirror. Snapped a photo, the hem of the robe barely covering the tops of my thighs, the heels on full display.
Click.
I stared at the image for a second. Then I sent it and typed.
Thank you. <3 If you aren’t busy tonight, I’m still in the same hotel room.
I hit send. If I had given myself another moment to think about it. I wouldn’t have sent it.
The reply came in under a minute.
Do you want to wear them to dinner tonight?
Is there a dress code?
None. I’m just happy with the heels
And that robe, if you insist
Okay. What time? And where?
8pm. I’ll send the car. Restaurant’s called SAINT. You’ll like it.
Later that Night
The car dropped me off at an unmarked entrance. A single door framed in black stone with a gold number etched above it.
Inside, the world changed.
The lighting was low. Velvet draped the booths. The kind of place designed for secrets and the people who could afford to keep them. It was beautiful. And dangerous in a way only extreme wealth could be.
A ma?tre d’ led me through a corridor flanked by arched mirrors and floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked a private garden. When I entered he was already there.
Vince sat at a round table near the back, holding a glass of something dark. He looked up as I approached, and I felt his gaze.
Up.
Down.
Up again.
And slowly back down. He didn’t move. Just watched me like he was memorizing every inch.
“Come here,” he gestured.
“Most people say hello or ask how you are.”
He smirked. “I’m not most people.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Turn.”
I hesitated. Then slowly turned in place, letting him see the full dress, low at the back, hugging every line the way the heels demanded.
When I faced him again, his expression hadn’t changed. But his eyes had darkened. He stood without a word and pulled out a chair. Beside him.
I stepped toward it, pausing for a moment as he held the chair steady.
“You look…” he paused, exhaled slowly and nodded for me to sit instead. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was lost for words.
I sat down, but I noticed as he moved to sit beside me, he was nervous. It was subtle. The slight adjustment of his cuffs. The pause before he reached for his glass.
Vincent Crow was nervous. He didn’t know what to do.
But I did. That was what dynasties trained daughters for, knowing what to say, when to say it, how to make people comfortable. Even Crows.
“My earring,” I said softly, lifting a hand to my hair. “It’s caught. Would you…?”
A few strands of hair were tied up on the clasp.
He nodded before I could finish. Leaning in, he reached up careful. His touch wasn’t rushed. As if he didn’t want to hurt me.
“How was your day?” I asked, breaking the quiet.
He let out a low breath, still focused on my hair. “A fucking nightmare.”
That surprised me. Most men in our world would’ve deflected. Said it was fine. Shifted the topic. But he didn’t.
“Oh?”
He freed a few strands, tucked it behind my ear. “Casino chaos. A shipment rerouted without notice. Syndicate miscommunication. I spent two hours arguing with someone who thinks lighting cigars with century notes is impressive.”
I did not expect that. Why did this man continue to surprise me.
“You didn’t have to tell me all that.”
“I didn’t want to lie to you.”
That landed harder than he probably realized. I reached out, resting my hand lightly on his thigh beneath the table. Just for a second.
He stilled, then his eyes dropped, once, from my hand to the line of my leg, then back up again.
“Can I…” he cleared his throat. “Can I take it off?”
“What?”
“Your—your earring. It’s still, stuck.”
I smiled. “Sure.”
He leaned in again.
“You’re a bit nervous,” I said lightly.
He chuckled under his breath. “Apparently.”
“A nervous Crow. That’s rare.”
“A beautiful woman in black satin and wearing heels I bought is rarer.” He placed the earring down.
“Can you take this one out too?” I gestured to the other side. “I hate uneven things. Makes me feel off-balance.”
Without a word, he shifted closer again. His fingers brushed my neck, carefully undoing the clasp.
“How was your day?” he asked, as he worked.
The question caught me off guard. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Like he actually wanted to know.
“Terrible. My parents are using me like a rag doll. Pulling me in opposite directions. Public loyalty, private strategy. The usual.”
He paused, the earring still in his hand.
I gave a half smile. By the time the food arrived, apparently this place didn’t do menus. He was back to his normal self. And I, of course gloated for a maybe two minutes.
His hand rested on my thigh as I took the first bite. It was sweet. Then… nutty.
My tongue started to itch. My throat tightened. A low, subtle burn built in my chest, faint at first, then sharper, like a hand closing slowly around my windpipe.
No.
No, no, no.
I swallowed hard, reached for my water, and took a sip, praying it was nothing. The water did nothing. My throat still burned. The taste, oily aftertaste, was unmistakable.
Peanuts.
My pulse spiked. My breath came shallow. The reaction was coming on too quickly.
“Madeline, you okay?”
I shook my head, tried to answer, but it came out broken.
“P—Peanuts.”
He frowned, not understanding at first.
“Peanuts,” I rasped, touching my throat. “In the food—”
And then my chest tightened fully, breath shortening, like I was breathing through a straw. Panic flooded my system faster. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
“Shit,” Vince muttered. “Do you…do you have an EpiPen?”
I had left my purse on the backseat of the car. I tried to tell him that. But I could barely even wheeze.
“Fuck,” his voice broke for the first time.
I tried to speak, to tell him, but all that came out was a dry, choked gasp.
“Hey. It’s okay,” his hand held the back of my neck. “It’s okay. Just breathe. Look at me.”
I couldn’t. My body wasn’t listening. My throat was closing fast, heat was flooding me.
“Madeline. You’re okay. You’re okay. Look at me.”
I was not okay. Choking to death was the opposite of okay. The sound of his voice blurred. I could feel his hand still on my neck. The other found my hand and squeezed tight.
I gripped back, or tried to. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow.
This is it, I thought. This is how I die. In a restaurant that doesn’t even have menus. Black crept in at the edges. The last thing I felt was his hand tightening around mine.
Then everything went dark.