Chapter 20 Madeline
Madeline
If I’d actually died, it probably would’ve caused less drama.
Of all the heirs in that ballroom to collapse beside, it had to be him. Fate Moreau. Eldest of the Moreau line. European dynasty, bio-tech empire, jaw carved by god complexes and PR teams.
The nurses kept whispering that he hadn’t left the waiting area since I went down. Another murmured that my parents were thrilled—apparently every heir in the room had watched Fate carry me out like some saint in a suit.
Meanwhile, I was lying on a Crow hospital bed with a monitor shouting my heartbeat into the room like it had something to prove.
The doctor stepped closer. Forties, hair scraped back, dynasty ink looped neatly around her wrist. The type who’d seen far worse than one girl fainting at a gala.
“Madeline,” she checked my chart. “Before I discharge you, I need to request permission for a more detailed examination.”
My fingers tightened in the blanket. “What kind of examination?”
“Internal,” her tone was gentle but still very clinical. “You stated pain before you lost consciousness. I’d like to rule out tearing or any reproductive damage. If anything looks concerning, we’ll run a quick scan.”
Heat hit my face. “You mean… down there.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Just to make sure everything is physically intact.”
My mouth went dry. Humiliation decided to become a living thing in my chest. This would only happen to me.
The door opened before I could answer.
“This is a private room,” she started—then stopped. Whatever she saw shut it down mid-sentence.
“Baby—fuck.”
Vince crossed the threshold like he’d broken every rule to get there. Black suit, jacket off, boots, shirt open at the throat, silver chain standing against ink. Hair a mess, eyes scanning until they landed on me and didn’t move.
“Vince?” It came out smaller than I wanted.
He was at my side in so quickly, cupping my face like he needed proof that I existed. His thumb brushed along my jaw once. “You scared the shit out of me.”
The doctor cleared her throat. “Mr Crow, this is—”
“She’s mine,” his voice was a low threat, it actually caused me to shiver. “If you’re examining her, I stay.”
The word mine hit harder than the monitor beeps.
My brain stalled long enough that the doctor’s next move surprised me. She just nodded. So much for privacy.
“Vince,” my cheeks burning, “you can’t be here. If someone sees—”
“No one is seeing anything.” He gently stroked my cheek. “This is a Crow facility. Staff don’t gossip unless they want their funding to vanish. Your family’s too busy praising that asshole in the waiting room for playing hero to notice anything else.”
“Fate isn’t an asshole,” I muttered on reflex.
“He touched you. He qualifies.”
“Mr Crow,” the doctor said carefully, “we still require the patient’s consent.”
He glanced at me, all that feral worry suddenly edged with restraint. “Let her decide,” he said quietly. “But if she agrees, I’m staying.”
Every part of me wanted to crawl into the wall and never come out. Internal exam, dynasty doctor, Vince right there. What god above enjoyed my humiliation.
“I hate this,” I whispered.
His hand slid to my shoulder. “I know, baby, I know.”
The doctor waited, eyes on me. No judgement there, just focus.
“Fine,” I sighed, looking away from both of them. “Just… make it quick.”
The pure humiliation should’ve killed me. It didn’t. My heart kept beeping, traitor that it was.
The doctor pulled a curtain across halfway for courtesy’s sake. I shifted under the blanket, arranged myself like she asked.
Vince caught my hand immediately, fingers lacing through mine. His other hand stroked my hair back from my face.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
He kissed my forehead. “You’re not alone, baby.”
The doctor’s instructions stayed measured and neutral. I stared up and, counted the ceiling tiles.
Vince leaned closer to my ear. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me.”
“Are you sure she won’t say anything?” I turned to look at him.
“She won’t. Not if she wants this hospital to keep its syndicate budget and dynasty contracts.” He kissed my knuckles.
It didn’t last long. When the doctor said everything was fine. Vince exhaled at the same time, like he’d been holding his breath the entire exam.
“Good to know your dick didn’t break me,” I muttered.
His mouth twitched, but the fear in his eyes hadn’t drained yet.
The doctor hesitated, checking something on the screen. “Madeline, may I ask you something of a personal nature?”
A groan slipped out. “Please don’t.”
“I’ll be brief. Have you been managing your eating disorder recently, or would you say you’re in relapse?”
I just stared at her. Unable to believe those words came out of her mouth. Vince went still beside me.
“I don’t have an eating disorder,” I snapped. “I’m just stressed.”
“Clinically, you’re severely underweight with very low muscle mass. Chronic malnourishment can cause fainting. I’m not judging you, I’m reading your history—”
“I said I’m stressed. That’s all.”
She studied me for a moment, saw more than I wanted her to, and nodded once anyway. “We’ll monitor your vitals for another hour. You’re showing mild concussion symptoms, likely from the fall. After that, assuming no changes, we’ll discharge you.”
The door closed quietly behind her.
Vince moved the second the door shut, he walked over and locked it.
He stayed there a moment, forehead tipped to the wood, shoulders heaving once.
He looked as if he had run here.
“You scared me more than anyone ever has,” he breathed slowly.
“Vince—”
He came back to the bed and sat on the edge. “You fainted. All I heard some heir caught you. I pictured you crumpled on that floor with a hundred cameras pointed at you and him touching you, and I—” His jaw clenched. “I should’ve been there.”
“You couldn’t be. You’re not supposed to be anywhere near my events.”
“I’ve been trying to get into this room for three hours,” he unclenched his hands. “Security blocked every corridor. I had to lean on the hospital board to get that doctor in so I had a reason to walk through the door without someone tackling me.”
My brows pulled together. “So the exam was… what, your tactical entry plan?”
“She did need to check you. I just expedited her timing.”
His possessive tendencies needed to be studied.
“You are unbelievable.”
Some of the tightness in his face eased. “And you love me anyway?”
The way he looked at me, as if he expected me to have changed my mind.
“Apparently.”
He leaned in and pressed his mouth to my forehead, my cheek, then finally my lips. Slow. Shaking. Desperate in a way that made the hospital fall away for a second.
Through each kiss, I could feel how scared he was.
When he pulled back, his eyes had gone darker. “Fate Moreau carried you out. Everyone saw it. They’re calling him a hero.”
He slipped into cursing into crow dialect unmistakable. Then he shook his head. “You messaged me. You told me you were in pain. I should’ve found a way in.”
“You were running a city.”
“I was failing you. I let you walk into that ballroom knowing you were hurting.” His gaze dropped briefly to the IV line, then returned to my face.
My fingers found his jaw, I brushed my thumb over rough edge of stubble. “Look at me.”
He did.
“I’m not bleeding out. I’m not brain-dead. Please stop acting like I flat-lined.”
He closed his eyes, breath leaving him in a long shaky exhale.
“You don’t understand what it sounded like. Hearing that some girl had gone down and knowing before they said your name it was you.”
His thumb traced slow circles on my wrist like he needed constant proof of my pulse.
“You have to go. My family, they’re going to demand to see me. If they walk in and find you here—”
“They won’t.”
“Vince.”
He didn’t move.
“I just want to get discharged and go home. Preferably without starting an international incident.”
His jaw clenched. He nodded once, but stayed seated. Fingers drifted over the back of my hand, grounding himself there.
“I hate that Moreau bastard touched you,” he muttered.
My crow had some serious obsessive and possessive tendencies.
“He picked me up so I didn’t smash my skull.” My eyes rolled. “You can send him a fruit basket with a threat letter later.”
“I’m not thanking him for doing a job that was mine.” His gaze stayed on my hand, thumb moving back and forth. “I love you.”
I let my head drop back into the pillow. “Lucky for you. I love you too.”
My stomach dropped. Because the realisation hit. “God. The footage. Veil is going to have a field day.”
Panic flared hotter than the humiliation had. Veil loved dynasty disasters. Slow-motion collapses. Frozen expressions. Captions dissecting body language like it was war strategy.
“It’s not,” Vince said.
“What do you mean it’s not?”
“There’s no footage.”
“Don’t lie to me. That platform breathes gossip. There are drones at every gala. Half the heirs are filming each other on stealth mode.”
He handed me my phone.
Veil opened automatically. I hit the event tag, bracing myself for the inevitable—some dynasty girl’s shaky video of my knees giving out, a still shot of Fate Moreau playing savior, the comment section turning it into twenty different narratives.
Nothing.
Trending tags redirected to older content. The event hashtag went nowhere. Any post that should’ve held my name? Empty. Wiped.
My brows knit. “Okay. That’s… not possible.”
“Luca cleaned it,”
“Come again?”
“I didn’t want anything of you on there. So he cleared your traces.”
“You can’t clear Veil. It’s digital stone. Once it’s carved, it stays. That’s the whole horror of it.”
“Apparently Luca can,” Vince replied.
“Vince.”
He sighed. “Fine. He didn’t technically clear it. He owns it. Bought controlling interest two years ago and built a backend that lets him erase or reroute whatever he wants. Started with one girl’s account. Expanded from there.”
My jaw dropped. “He bought the most viral dynasty platform on the planet… because of a girl?”
“Something like that.”
I sank back against the pillows. “That is the most Crow thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Probably started because he didn’t like the men in her DMs,” Vince forced a smile if fell as soon as he looked at the IV.
I reached for Vince’s hand and lifted it, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his thumb. “Tell him thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank—”
“I’m thanking your over-controlling younger brother who just erased an evening of my worst dynasty optics.”
I traced his thumb, thinking about that doctor. “That exam, by the way. Officially the most humiliating thing I’ve lived through.”
“I’m proud of you.” He turned my hand and kissed the back, slow. “I might have… overreacted.”
My grin came easier now. “That’s one word for it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that panicked.”
“I thought you were dying.”
The air shifted. Joking stopped feeling safe there. I turned my face into his shoulder. His hand found my wrist again, thumb tracing over the delicate skin there.
He went quiet. That should’ve been my warning. Instead, I was too lost in his touch.
“Baby,”
My stomach always dropped when he said my name like that.
“Do you have an eating disorder?”
Everything in me went rigid. Eyes stayed fixed on the crease of the blanket. “That’s a dramatic way to ask if I’ve had a stressful month.”
“Madeline. I’m not playing.”His tone shifted, no humour to hide behind.
“I told you I’m fine.”
“The doctor said you’re underweight.”
“I’m small. I’ve always been small.”
“When was the last time you ate an actual meal?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn this into an interrogation.”
“I’m trying to understand. Answer me so I don’t have to drag it out of you.”
“This is a boundary,” I snapped. “You don’t get to micromanage that part of me.”
He stood abruptly, pacing once between the bed and the wall like the space was too small for how wound up he was. “My girl collapsing in public because her body gave out isn’t a boundary, it’s a crisis.”
“Vince—”
“No. You fainted. I need to know what’s happening to you. I need to know how bad it is.”
“It’s not like that,” I whispered.
“Then tell me what it is like.”
My jaw locked. There weren’t words for the way my stomach shut down around my mother’s presence, the way food transformed into math problems and bargaining chips the moment she entered a room.
Silence stretched between us and it turned ugly.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “You think I want control for the sake of it? I’m trying to keep you breathing.”
Years of dynasty conditioning lined up in my head, all the voices that had praised restraint and discipline and a small body as proof of worth. Nobody had called it sickness. No one had asked if I was okay. They’d just said well done when I picked at my plate.
No one had ever been close enough to notice when it went too far.
Until now.
“You can’t fix this for me,” I slid my hand across the blanket.
He came back to the bed and dropped to one knee, bringing his eyes level with mine. “Maybe not. But I can stand between you and whatever’s doing this to you. That’s my job.”
“You already are,” I whispered.
His forehead lowered until it rested lightly against my thigh. “Then let me do it properly.”
Fingers threaded into his hair on instinct, nails grazing his scalp. “You’re doing enough. More than anyone ever has.”
He looked up, and the fear in his eyes almost undid me more than the fainting had. No witty comeback came to save either of us.
He didn’t push again.