Chapter 7: Possession
The world was a watercolor blur of gilt and shadow. Dream's feet were leaden, her thoughts syrup-slow. The photographer's voice was a distant buzz. "Almost there, sweetheart. My editor's gonna love these exclusive shots of the tragic heiress…"
His words barely registered. A deeper, more primal alarm was sounding through the fog. A pressure change in the air. A vibration through the marble floor.
Then, the buzz was ripped away, replaced by a silence so absolute it was deafening.
The photographer's supportive grip vanished. There was a choked gasp, a thud against the wall.
Dream swayed, the corridor tilting. Before she could fall, a new force enveloped her—not kind, but absolute. An iron arm banded around her waist, hauling her back against a wall of solid, furious heat. The scent of sandalwood and cold rage engulfed her.
Tom.
He didn't speak. The silence coming from him was more terrifying than any shout. He simply turned, sweeping her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Her head lolled against his chest. Through the haze, she saw his profile—a jaw carved from granite, eyes fixed ahead with a lethal focus.
He strode back into the blazing light of the ballroom, carrying her. The music died mid-note. A thousand stares latched onto them. Celeste's smirk from the sidelines froze, then faltered at the sight of Tom's face.
His voice, when it came, didn't rise. It cut through the silence like a blade, cold and final, addressed to no one and everyone. "The party is over."
He didn't wait for a reaction. He carried her, a silver and diamond sacrifice in his arms, past the gaping crowd, through the grand foyer, and out into the night. Paparazzi flashes erupted like lightning, but he didn't flinch, didn't pause. His security team materialized, forming a human wall, clearing a path to the idling town car.
He bundled her into the back seat, climbing in after her. The door slammed, sealing them in a tomb of leather and tension. The car pulled away, the frantic world outside muted to a dull roar.
"Look at me."
His command was a lash. Dream forced her heavy lids open. His face was inches from hers, his eyes twin storms.
"Was that your plan?" he bit out, every word a shard of ice. "A little public melodrama? Getting sloppy drunk and letting the first vulture with a camera lead you off for a scoop? Was that your idea of revenge, Dream? To humiliate me?"
The accusation pierced the fog, sparking a weak flare of anger. Her tongue felt thick, useless. She tried to shake her head, managed only a slight roll. "Not… drunk."
"Don't lie to me." His hand came up, gripping her chin, forcing her gaze to hold his. "I saw you. One glass of champagne and you're stumbling into the arms of a tabloid hack."
The heat of his touch, the fury in his eyes, the dizziness—it coalesced into a single, desperate truth. She focused every shred of her will. Her words slurred, but they were clear enough.
"You… poisoned me."
The effect was instantaneous.
His fury didn't vanish; it transformed. The ice in his eyes cracked, revealing a churning, darker abyss beneath. The possessive rage bled into something sharper, more alert. His grip on her chin loosened, his thumb brushing almost unconsciously over her cheekbone, as if checking for fever.
"What did you say?"
"Celeste… the glass…" Her eyes fluttered shut, the effort too much. "Dizzy… not right."
She felt him go perfectly still. Then his hands were on her, not restraining, but assessing. A palm against her forehead. Fingers on the pulse point at her wrist, where the diamond cuff bit into her skin. His touch was clinical, urgent.
"Sebastian," he snapped to the driver, his voice different now—clipped, lethal. "Call ahead. Get Dr. Evans to the penthouse. Now. And discreetly." He pulled out his own phone, typing a furious message with one thumb, his other arm still supporting her against him. "I want the name of every server, every staff member near that champagne tray. And find that photographer. I want to know who he works for and who paid him."
He tossed the phone aside and looked down at her. All the calculated cruelty was gone, replaced by a terrifying, focused intensity. He cradled her head against his shoulder, his hand smoothing her hair back from her damp forehead. "Stay awake, Dream. Look at me."
She forced her eyes open. His face was close, his expression unreadable. "I'm… fine," she lied, her voice a thread.
"You're not." His thumb stroked her temple, a gesture at odds with the storm in his eyes. "If someone touched you… if they put something in your drink…" He didn't finish the sentence. The promise of violence hung in the air, more potent than any threat he'd yet uttered.
The ride was a blur of city lights and his steady, punishing heartbeat under her ear. He carried her from the car, through the private elevator, and into the penthouse, bypassing the gawking Ms. Vance.
Dr. Evans, an older man with a calm demeanor, was waiting in the living room with a medical bag. Tom laid Dream on the large sofa, his movements strangely careful.
"She was drugged," Tom said, no room for argument. "Test her. Everything. Now."
As the doctor set to work, taking vials of blood, checking her pupils and vitals, Tom stood sentinel by the fireplace, his back to them, shoulders rigid. The penthouse was silent except for the soft clink of medical instruments.
Dream floated in a disconnected state, watching him. The ruthless billionaire was gone. In his place was a statue of contained fury, every line of his body radiating a lethal protectiveness that was more confusing than his earlier anger.
Finally, Dr. Evans packed his kit. "She was given a moderate dose of a benzodiazepine, likely in a fast-acting liquid form. Not life-threatening, but designed to cause significant disorientation and compliance. She'll sleep it off. I'll run full toxicology, but the symptoms are clear." He handed Tom a small vial of dark blood. "This will tell us exactly what it was."
Tom took the vial, holding it up to the light as if it contained the secrets of the universe. His jaw was a tight, hard line, his knuckles white around the glass.
He looked from the blood to Dream, sprawled weakly on the couch, her silver gown a stark contrast to the white linen. The vulnerability he saw there seemed to fuel the inferno inside him.
His voice, when he spoke to the doctor, was dangerously soft. "Find out exactly what it was. And find out who manufactured it, who distributes it, and who in this city has purchased it in the last month." He turned his head, his grey eyes like chips of flint, finally landing his gaze fully on Dream's pale face.
"Find who did this," he said, the words a vow of annihilation. "And when you do, bring them to me."