Chapter 224
Raven
The Surgeon stared at the pendant like it had personally insulted his mother.
"Impossible." His voice was ice wrapped in razors. "The imaging signatures matched perfectly. The energy readings—"
"Were fabricated." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Shit.
Every eye in the room swiveled toward me.
Okay, Raven. You opened your mouth. Commit to the bit.
I let Marianne's vapid smile spread across my face, tilting my head like I was sharing gossip at a country club brunch. "I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? The crystalline lattice structure is all wrong."
The Surgeon's gaze narrowed. Dangerous. Predatory.
"Explain."
Of course he wants me to explain. Because apparently, I can't keep my goddamn mouth shut when someone's being an idiot.
I sighed dramatically, like this was such a bore, and gestured lazily at the pendant. "Soviet quantum anchors weren't just radioactive—they were architecturally unstable. The isotopes they used created micro-fractures in the crystalline matrix. You can see them under polarized light." I paused, examining my nails. "That thing? Flawless. Which means it's either resin composite or—if your forger had any skill—lab-grown crystal with LED backlighting for the 'glow.'"
The room went very, very quiet.
The Surgeon's jaw tightened. His eyes bored into me with the intensity of a man reconsidering every assumption he'd made in the last five minutes.
Well. That was stupid, Raven. Congratulations. You just showed the homicidal mad scientist that Marianne Goodman knows way too much about Soviet nuclear artifacts.
Nash's hand found the small of my back. His fingers tapped morse code against my spine.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I ignored him. Mostly because I was too busy wondering if I'd just signed our death warrants.
The Surgeon took a step toward me. Then another.
"Mrs. Goodman." His voice was soft. Too soft. "That's a very... specific knowledge base for a socialite."
Oh, here we go.
I laughed. High-pitched. Brittle. Exactly the kind of laugh a rich woman makes when she's been caught showing off. "Oh, please. I took a semester of gemology at Sotheby's Institute. You think I don't know how to spot a fake?"
"Gemology." The Surgeon's eyes glittered. "How fascinating."
"You know what's fascinating?" Nash's voice cut through the tension like a chainsaw through butter. He stepped forward, his grip on my waist tightening to the point of pain. "I came here tonight to discuss a five-hundred-billion-dollar investment. Not to watch you get scammed by some two-bit hustler with a glue gun and a Home Depot gift card."
Beautiful. Aggressive. Perfectly timed.
The Surgeon's attention snapped away from me, refocusing on Nash.
Thank you, you beautiful, controlling bastard.
Nash didn't stop. "You promised us the future. Evolution. Transcendence." He gestured sharply at the pendant. "Instead, we get a B-grade prop from a sci-fi convention and a murder show that nearly gave my wife a panic attack." He pulled me closer, practically shoving me behind him. "So unless you plan to deliver something actually impressive in the next five minutes, we're done here."
The threat hung in the air.
The Surgeon's expression flickered. Anger. Frustration. And something else.
Calculation.
He exhaled slowly, his hands unclenching. "You're right, of course." His voice smoothed out, returning to that clinical calm. "This... setback is unfortunate. But I assure you, Mr. Goodman, I will provide answers. I will locate the genuine article." His gaze swept the room. "However, first—I have some domestic business to attend to."
He snapped his fingers.
The enhanced guards released Maria, letting her collapse onto the cold floor in a heap of silk and snot.
The Surgeon crouched beside her, tilting his head like a scientist examining a failed experiment. "Ms. Santos. Tell me. How much did you pay for this... masterpiece?"
Maria's voice was a broken rasp. "F-fifty... fifty million."
The room exploded into laughter.
Not kind laughter. The cruel, hyena-like cackling of predators watching another predator fail.
The Surgeon didn't laugh. He just stared at her with something close to pity.
"Fifty million dollars." He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his slacks. "For glowing resin." He turned to the rest of us, spreading his hands in mock disbelief. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is what happens when stupidity intersects with greed."
Maria sobbed harder.
"However." The Surgeon's tone shifted, almost bored now. "You were foolish. Not malicious. And I have a policy about killing the merely incompetent." He waved a hand dismissively. "Take her to the guest quarters. Keep her comfortable. We'll discuss reparations in the morning."
Two guards hauled Maria to her feet. She stumbled away, still crying, as if she couldn't believe she was still breathing.
Honestly, neither can I.
Nash leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. His voice was low enough that only I could hear. "You couldn't help yourself, could you?"
"She spent fifty million on resin, Nash."
"And you nearly blew our cover pointing it out."
"I was subtle."
"You were showing off."
Okay, fine. Maybe a little.
He straightened, his public mask sliding back into place, and pulled me against his side with exaggerated possessiveness. "Darling." His voice carried across the room now, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's make a deal. If we ever buy glowing jewelry, we'll hire an actual expert. Not some idiot with a Geiger counter and a dream."
Laughter rippled through the investors.
Even The Surgeon smirked.
And just like that, the tension dissolved.
Chandler Kovacs bounced on his heels, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "See? See? I told you this watch was worth every penny! Forty grand well spent!"
Chen Wei clapped him on the shoulder. "You saved us all from a very expensive mistake, my friend."
"Damn right I did!" Chandler grinned like a golden retriever who'd just been told he was a good boy. He turned toward me, waving his wrist enthusiastically. "Hey, Marianne! You gotta check this thing out—it's military-grade! Detects radiation, chemical traces, even quantum flux if you calibrate it right—"
He stepped closer, still babbling.
"—and the sensitivity? Off the charts! I mean, if there were any real Soviet tech in this room, it would go absolutely berserk—"
He gestured wildly.
His wrist swept past my chest.
SCREEEEEEE—BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The sound was deafening. Shrill. Desperate.
Like a smoke alarm having a nervous breakdown.
Chandler froze mid-sentence.
Everyone froze.
The watch screamed. Red lights flashed across its face in a frantic strobe.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Chandler stared at his wrist. Then at my chest. Then back at his wrist.
"What the—" He stumbled backward, holding the watch away from me like it might explode. "Holy shit, Marianne! Your chest is—why is your chest radioactive?!"