CHAPTER 17 - Madeline
The interior of the sedan smells of expensive leather and the faint, dangerous spice of Deimos’s cologne. It’s a silent, pressurized tomb moving through the neon-soaked veins of the city.
I sit as far away from him as the seat allows, my fingers digging into the velvet lining of my clutch. The blue silk of my dress rustles with every breath I take, a constant reminder of the weight I’m carrying.
I steal a glance at him. He’s different tonight. The raw violence of the morgue has been polished away, replaced by a terrifyingly smooth sophistication. In his charcoal tuxedo, he looks like a prince of the underworld. Cold, untouchable, and lethally handsome.
The way his large hands rest on the steering wheel, steady and relaxed, makes my stomach twist. Those hands held too many souls inside them. Now, they’re chauffeuring me to my potential social execution.
"Stop dissecting me, Madeline," he says, his voice a low vibration that seems to hum through the seat and into my spine.
He doesn't even look at me, but he knows. He always knows.
"Save that clinical focus for the room we’re about to enter."
"I don't belong there," I whisper, my voice cracking.
I look out the window at the blurred lights.
"I belong in a lab with dead people who can't talk back. These people... they’ll see right through me."
"They’ll see exactly what I want them to see," he counters as he slows the car.
We approach the district where the old money lives, the buildings turning from glass and steel to heavy, ornate stone.
"Listen to me carefully. There are rules tonight. Break them, and the consequences won't just be yours to bear. Remember Lucy."
I flinch at her name, my jaw tightening.
"Tell me what you want from me."
"The Grand Met is crawling with the Elite. These are the men who think they are gods because they sign the checks that run this city. But they have a weakness: they are obsessed with their own mortality. They’re paranoid, Madeline.
They’ve spent their lives poisoning others, and now they’re terrified of being poisoned themselves. "
He turns the wheel, his movements fluid.
"I’m introducing you as Dr. Madeline Emerson, not just my companion, but my consultant.
You aren't a 'simple' pathologist tonight.
You are the expert who keeps me safe. You are the woman who knows a thousand ways to kill a man and, more importantly, how to spot when someone is trying to do the same to us. "
"You want me to use my degree to gain their trust?"
I ask, a sick feeling rising in my throat.
"I want you to be the bridge. When I introduce you to Councilman Thorne or the Director of the Port, you will look them in the eye. You will speak with the authority of someone who has seen what’s inside a human heart.
They trust science because they don't trust people.
Having a world-class pathologist on my arm makes me look prepared.
It makes me look like someone they can't surprise. "
He pulls the car to a stop a block away from the red carpet, the glowing entrance of the Grand Met visible in the distance. He finally turns to look at me. His eyes are dark, predatory, yet there’s that obsessive flicker in them, that look that says he’s memorized every inch of me.
"You will stay by my side. You will not drink anything I haven't checked. You will smile, you will be brilliant, and you will play the part of the woman who belongs to the most dangerous man in the room. Do you understand?"
I stare at him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the shimmering net of my dress. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a scalpel.
"And if I can't do it?"
Deimos reaches over, his gloved thumb tracing the line of my jaw, pressing just hard enough to remind me of the bruises beneath the silk.
"You will," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips.
"Because you’re curious, Mali. You want to see the rot behind the gold as much as I do. Now, take a breath. The curtains are going up."
The car crawls the final few yards toward the limestone arches of the Grand Met. There are no flashing bulbs, no shouting reporters, and no public spectacle.
The street has been cleared of anyone who doesn't carry a black-and-gold invitation. Instead of a roar, there is only the heavy, rhythmic thud of my own heart. The sedan comes to a smooth, final halt.
"Wait," Deimos says.
The word is low, carrying the weight of a physical restraint.
He turns in the driver’s seat again, his silhouette cutting a sharp, dark edge against the dim amber glow of the streetlamps outside.
He reaches out again, his hand moving toward my face. I flinch, but he doesn't pull back. Instead, he hooks his fingers under my chin, tilting my head up until I have no choice but to meet those bottomless, obsidian eyes.
"The fear makes your eyes brighter, Madeline," he murmurs, his thumb grazing my lower lip just long enough to make it tremble.
"Keep that fire. But remember. Out there, you aren't my captive. You are my partner. You are the only person in that building that I trust, and that makes you the most powerful woman in the room. Act like it."
He lets go, and the cold air of the cabin feels like an insult where his hand just was.
The door clicks open.
The silence hits me first. It’s heavy, expensive, and laced with the scent of rain and old stone. I step out, my heels clicking onto the plush red carpet that leads into the belly of the mansion.
The silk of my dress ripples around my legs like a dark tide. There is no crowd here, only the watchful eyes of security details standing like statues.
Deimos doesn't just walk; he claims the space around him. He stops at my side and offers his arm. I hesitate for a heartbeat before sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow. The fabric of his suit is heavy, and beneath it, I can feel the iron-hard muscle of his arm.
"Chin up," he whispers, leaning down so his breath brushes my ear.
"They’re already watching from the windows. Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing you blink."
As we walk through the massive mahogany doors, the scale of the opulence takes my breath away. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen explosions from the vaulted ceiling, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the men and women circulating below.
These aren't just rich people; these are the architects of the city’s misery, dressed in silk and diamonds. I feel exposed, every bruise he left on me hidden only by a few millimeters of shimmering fabric.
As we enter the main ballroom, the low hum of conversation dips. Heads turn. Not with the excitement, but with the cold, calculating gaze of sharks recognizing a new predator in their waters. I feel Deimos’s grip tighten slightly against my side. It’s a silent anchor.
A man with a silver mane of hair and a face like a sharpened blade, Councilman Thorne, steps forward from a circle of associates. His eyes rake over me with a clinical greed that makes my skin crawl.
He doesn't look at my face; he looks at the way the dress clings to me, then at the marks on my neck that the makeup couldn't entirely mask.
"Deimos," Thorne says, his voice a smooth, oily baritone.
"I didn't think you were a man for company. Especially not company so... refined."
I feel Deimos’s body shift, a subtle change in tension. He doesn't smile. He just looks at Thorne with the cold boredom of a man looking at an insect he’s about to crush.
"Councilman," he says, his voice projecting a quiet authority that cuts through the music.
"Allow me to introduce Dr. Madeline Emerson. The city’s finest forensic pathologist. I find it’s always best to have an expert on hand who can tell exactly when a heart has stopped beating."
Thorne’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. He looks into my ice-blue eyes, and for a moment, the power dynamic shifts. He realizes I’m not just a trophy; I’m a warning.
His gaze lingers on me a second too long, his eyes searching for the flicker of a victim beneath the shimmering dress. I feel Deimos’s arm tense under my hand. A silent, predatory coil ready to spring if the older man oversteps.
I don’t wait for Deimos to defend me.
I take a half-step forward, shortening the distance between myself and the Councilman just enough to reclaim the space. I don't offer my hand; I simply meet his stare with the same clinical detachment I use when I’m staring down a cold slab in the morgue.
"Actually, Councilman," I say, my voice steady, cutting through the low hum of the ballroom like a scalpel.
"My specialty isn't just identifying when a heart stops. It’s identifying the exact hand that stopped it. The body never lies, even when the people around it spend their lives doing nothing else."
I let a faint, cold smile touch my lips.
The kind that doesn't reach my eyes. The sudden confidence isn't because of Deimos.
It crawls to me, because I can see exactly what type of man The Councilman actually is.
I know that the only thing he sees when looks at me, is how much money he could get for offering me as meat to the others.
Thorne blinks, his polished mask slipping for a fraction of a second. He wasn't expecting a voice; he was expecting a doll. He clears his throat, shifting his weight.
"A... fascinating profession, Doctor. Morbid, but necessary, I suppose."
"Necessary for the truth," I reply, my tone final.
"If you'll excuse us. I believe the air in this part of the room is getting a bit... stagnant."
Deimos doesn't say a word, but I feel the vibration of a low, dark chuckle deep in his chest. He gives Thorne a mock, minimalist nod and leads me away. Toward the far end of the gilded hall.
"Careful, little storm," he whispers, his lips inches from my ear as we move.
"You almost sounded like you enjoyed that. If you keep showing that much teeth, people might start to realize you’re more dangerous than the man you’re standing next to."
"I'm just doing what you told me to," I hiss back, my heart still racing from the rush of defiance.