My mother glanced at her wristpiece. “You’re already late for the heir rotation. Table Seven. The Valhart boy’s family is watching; don’t give them a reason to think you’re unreliable.”
I drew myself taller. The simple act of lifting my chest and pulling my shoulder blades back sent a flash of pain down my spine and into my hips. My face didn’t move.
She studied me for one more heartbeat, then turned away.
The moment she was out of my direct line of sight, I let out a breath and caught the back of the nearest chair. My fingers dug into polished wood until my knuckles ached.
Had I put on weight?
It felt impossible. I hadn’t eaten properly in days.
I pushed off the chair and walked towards the ballroom. It screamed old money, and luxury. elegantly decorated and veil drones hovering. I handed my card to the attendant, dipped my head in the right direction, and stepped toward the opening in the crowd.
“Madeline.” An heir waited there. Dark hair, clean-cut jaw, the normal handsomeness that came with dynasty breeding. He said something—compliment about my work, maybe a comment about our families’ shared interests. The words didn’t sink in. Everything felt distant.
He offered his arm. My fingers settled on it. The training ran deeper than the pain.
We stepped forward. Light fractured around the edges. The room suddenly, felt distant. My stomach dropped as if the floor had moved, not me.
I tried to breathe.
The marble rushed up far too fast.
Then everything wentblack.
20
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 werethrilled—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 ruleout 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.
