CHAPTER 15 - Madeline #2
As I walk into my apartment, I start stripping, my clothes falling in a trail behind me. I head straight toward the bathroom, intending to face my reflection and count the bruises he left behind, but I’m caught off guard. My heart stops as I see the massive words smeared across my mirror.
Written in blood.
My lips part in shock as I read:
“LOOK IN YOUR BEDROOM, LITTLE STORM.”
The shower can wait. My skin goes cold, the adrenaline already pumping through my veins again. I can’t even guess what I’ll find. Is it him? Is it a body? Parts of one? Fuck.
I walk naked toward my bedroom, every nerve ending on fire. In the center of the dim room, resting on my bed, is a matte black box, wrapped with a precision that feels threatening.
I take a few slow, silent steps, my eyes darting to the corners of the ceiling. I can’t see any cameras, but I know he’s watching. He has to be.
I open the box slowly.
My breath hitches, my lungs refusing to expand. I am welcomed by the most beautiful dress I’ve ever witnessed. It’s a deep, midnight blue. The color of a bruised sky. My fingers brush against the delicate fabric as I pull it out; it feels like liquid starlight.
The glitters catch the moonlight just enough to look like a trap.
The back is entirely open, and the cleavage is dangerously low, protected only by a fine, shimmering net.
I reach back into the box, searching for a note, a reason, a command.
There’s nothing. Just the dress, and the silent, heavy expectation that I will become exactly who he wants me to be.
Then, my phone vibrates on the nightstand.
UNKNOWN: "Tomorrow night. The Grand Met. 8:00 PM. I’ll pick you up in the front of your building. Be ready."
Before I can even breathe, another message follows.
UNKNOWN: "You’ll wear the dress, Madeline. It’s a mission, and I need you to help me. We’re attending a gala. Very exclusive. Very dangerous."
My fingers fly across the screen, fueled by a mixture of fury and genuine terror.
ME: "An exclusive gala? Are you insane? You just broke into my home, you slaughtered my ex, and now you want me to be your date for some high-society event?"
ME: "I’m a medical examiner, not a spy. I don't know who these people are, and I don't care about your 'missions.' I’m not going anywhere with you."
The reply comes instantly.
UNKNOWN: "You should care. These people make Jake look like a saint. They are dangerous, Madeline. They own the judges, the police, and the very air you breathe."
ME: "Then go kill them yourself! You’re the professional. Why do you need me? I’ll be a liability. I’ll get us both killed."
UNKNOWN: "You aren't a liability. You’re the perfect distraction. No one expects the 'pure' Dr. Emerson to be standing next to a ghost. You are my entry, Mali. And don't worry... I’m the most dangerous thing in that room. As long as you’re mine, no one will hurt you."
I stare at the blue light of the phone, feeling the weight of the dress in my hands.
ME: "What happens if I say no?"
The final message makes my blood turn to lead.
UNKNOWN: "Then Lucy goes to work tomorrow... and she never comes home.”
The blue light of the phone screen burns into my retinas as I read the final threat. My vision tunnels. The dress, which felt like a gift seconds ago, now feels like a shroud. I don't care if he’s watching. I don't care if he’s downstairs. I’m done being the silent victim in his twisted game.
I grab the phone and type, my heart hammering with a lethal mix of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated rage.
ME: "You coward. You absolute coward! We just slept together! You talk about power and missions, and then you threaten a woman who has nothing to do with this? If you touch Lucy, I swear to God I’ll find a way to make sure you never leave that gala alive. Don't you dare bring her into this."
ME: "You want me to be your 'entry'? Then find another way. I won't be a pawn in your war, because you’re holding a gun to my friend's head. You're no better than the people you're hunting."
I wait, my breath coming in jagged stabs. The silence in the apartment is agonizing. Then, the phone buzzes in my hand. It’s not a text this time.
It’s a call.
I answer it instantly, my voice a sharp blade.
ME: "Don't you ever threaten her again," I hiss into the receiver.
DEIMOS: "I’m not threatening her, Madeline. I’m reminding you of the stakes. The world is much bigger than your morgue, and the people there aren't as patient as I am."
His voice is low, calm, and devastatingly intimate. It’s like he’s standing right behind me, his breath ghosting over my neck.
DEIMOS: "But let’s talk about you, Mali.
You call yourself a 'simple medical examiner.' You hide behind your scalpel and your sterile reports. But we both know that’s a lie. I’ve seen the way you look at a crime scene.
I’ve seen the notes you hide in the margins of your files.
The ones where you solve the cases the detectives are too stupid or too corrupt to see. "
I freeze, my hand tightening on the phone. How could he know? Those notes... the private theories I write late at night when the evidence doesn't match the official story... I’ve never told anyone.
DEIMOS: "You’ve always wanted to go deeper, haven't you?
You want to know the 'why,' not just the 'how.
' You want justice, but you're trapped in a system that only wants the final paperwork.
With me, you aren't just a pathologist. You’re the one who decides who lives and who pays.
You can be the storm, Mali, or you can keep being the girl who hides in the dark waiting for the next Jake to find her. "
The silence on the line is heavy. He’s peeling me back, layer by layer, exposing the part of me I thought I had buried under years of professional detachment.
DEIMOS: "Tomorrow night isn't just about my mission. It’s about yours. I’m giving you the keys to the kingdom you’ve been peering into from the outside.
Put on the dress. Be ready at eight. And Madeline.
.. I’ll know if you’re carrying a scalpel.
I suggest you bring your brain instead. Or both.
But your knowledge is a much more dangerous weapon. "
The line clicks dead.
I stand in the center of my bedroom, the midnight blue dress draped over the bed like a fallen sky. My anger is still there, but it’s being crowded out by something else. A terrifying, exhilarating spark of recognition.
He didn't just choose me because I was there. He chose me because he knows I’m just as hungry for the truth as he is for blood.