Chapter 6 - The Poison in the Crystal Glass and the Battle for His Life
The crystal glass shattered against the marble floor, scattering sparkling shards like diamonds across the polished surface.
Lucas collapsed onto his side, his hands clawing desperately at his collar as his breath turned into a ragged, whistling gasp.
His skin turned a ghastly shade of pale gray, and cold sweat beaded instantly along his forehead.
“Lucas!” I screamed, sprinting past the paralyzed swarm of high-society guests and dropping to my knees beside him.
The ballroom erupted into absolute chaos.
Screams bounced off the crystal chandeliers, and wealthy investors in tailored tuxedos shoved each other out of the way, terrified of being associated with a corporate assassination.
“Get back! Give us room!” I yelled, shoving a panicking board member away with my shoulder.
I pressed two fingers against Lucas’s carotid artery.
His pulse was erratic, racing dangerously fast before plunging into a sluggish, terrifying thud.
“Anaphylactic shock combined with a neurotoxin,” I muttered to myself, my medical training kicking in with icy precision while panic hammered at my ribs.
“He’s been poisoned. Someone get an epipen and call 911 immediately!”
Across the circle of panicked onlookers, Claire Vance stood frozen, her glass of champagne still clutched in her hand.
Her face was unnaturally pale, her wide eyes staring down at Lucas not with horror, but with a calculated, unmistakable guilt.
She hadn't just proposed the toast; she had known what was in the glass.
“Bailey…” Lucas choked out, his fingers weakly grabbing my wrist with a desperate grip.
“It… burns… my chest…”
“I’ve got you,” I said, my voice trembling but my hands entirely steady.
“Look at me, Lucas. Stay with me! Don't you dare close your eyes!”
His airway was swelling shut rapidly, his lips turning a dangerous shade of blue.
I remembered the emergency medical kit Victoria had insisted I carry in my designer handbag—a perk of my new ridiculous job.
I unzipped my bag with frantic fingers, ripping open the side pouch to pull out a compact emergency tracheotomy kit and an intravenous epinephrine ampoule.
“Hold him still!” I screamed at a nearby security guard who had finally rushed over.
“His throat is closing! I have to intubate him right here on the ballroom floor!”
The guard grabbed Lucas’s shoulders, pinning him flat against the marble.
I tore open the sterile packaging, my fingers moving with lightning speed, guided by muscle memory from my old nursing school clinicals.
Surrounded by five hundred horrified billionaires in evening wear, kneeling in spilled champagne and shattered crystal, I jammed the needle into the subcutaneous tissue, delivering a massive dose of epinephrine directly into his system.
For three agonizing seconds, nothing happened.
Lucas’s body went completely limp, his eyes rolling back into his head.
The pulse beneath my fingers flickered, sputtered, and then stopped entirely.
“No, no, no!” I sobbed, tears spilling over my lashes as I positioned my hands directly over the heavy medical tape covering his recently cracked ribs.
The memory of the first time I cracked them flashed through my mind.
Broken ribs heal. A dead heart doesn’t.
I slammed my palms down onto his chest, initiating high-frequency compressions.
“One, two, three, four…” I counted aloud, pressing with every ounce of strength in my body.
The sickening crunch of cartilage echoed beneath my hands as the healing bone fractures gave way once more.
I didn't care about the pain. I didn't care about the blood staining my midnight-blue silk gown.
“Breathe, damn you!” I screamed, tilting his head back to deliver rescue breaths.
“You do not die at your own gala!”
On the thirtieth compression, I pressed down hard, delivering two swift breaths into his lungs.
Suddenly, Lucas arched off the floor, his entire body convulsing violently as a deep, agonizing cough ripped through his throat.
A dark fluid spilled from his lips onto the marble floor.
He took in a massive, shuddering gasp of air, his eyes flying wide open.
He was back.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second as emergency vehicles converged on Meridian Tower.
I collapsed backward onto my heels, gasping for breath, completely drenched in sweat and adrenaline.
Through the blur of tears, I looked up across the ballroom.
Claire Vance was gone.
She had slipped out into the panicked crowd while everyone else was watching me revive the CEO.
And as the paramedics swarmed the ballroom floor to take over, Lucas reached out a trembling hand, grabbing my stained sleeve.
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“Find her…” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes burning with lethal intent.
“Find out who gave her the poison.”
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