Chapter 51
Xiomara fell hard onto the floor. The champagne glass shattered against the marble with a loud crash, liquid splashing all over her.
Several nearby guests turned to look. Someone let out a startled cry. Others whispered among themselves.
She lay sprawled on the floor in complete disarray, half her gown soaked, hair falling loose around her face—the carefully staged "delicate stumble" turned into a genuine faceplant.
"Ms. Wipere, the floor's slippery. Watch your step next time."
Octavius's assistant Ethan helped Xiomara up from the floor, her smile more painful than crying.
She took the napkin the assistant offered and dabbed at the wine stains on her gown, but from the corner of her eye she stared fixedly at the hand Octavius kept at Seraphine's side.
After wiping away the stains, she plastered on a fresh smile and nodded toward Ryder in the corner.
Ryder discreetly pulled the small packet from his pocket and made his way toward the tray of drinks a server was carrying.
Ryder moved quickly.
Taking advantage of a moment when Octavius was surrounded by real estate moguls exchanging pleasantries, he sidled up to the drinks table. With a flick of his fingers, the powder from the transparent packet dissolved completely into a glass of champagne.
Bubbles churned for a few moments before the surface settled, leaving no trace.
He picked up that glass and turned to hand it to Xiomara. Father and daughter exchanged a knowing look.
Xiomara carried the champagne through the crowd toward Octavius.
She took a different route—not approaching from the front, but circling around to the other side of the cold buffet. She pretended to reach for a dessert, having the server place that glass along with several others on a tray before the server carried them to Octavius.
That way, he'd be accepting a "random drink"—no reason for suspicion.
She stood at a distance, staring at him through gaps in the crowd.
Octavius was talking to someone, posture casual, somehow already holding that glass of champagne.
He took a sip without pause and continued the conversation, expression unchanged.
Xiomara's lips curved upward. She silently started counting—ten minutes.
In ten minutes, he'd feel drowsy and need to rest upstairs.
She'd be waiting in the room she'd booked, door left ajar, lights dimmed to the softest warm yellow.
She set her glass carelessly on a nearby surface and turned toward the elevators.
A server carrying an empty tray emerged from the crowd, his gaze lingering on Xiomara's retreating figure.
He recognized her—the Wipere family's young miss who'd fallen earlier. He'd checked the guest list when she came in. The Wipere family, Silverpeak Town's wealthiest.
Sure, they couldn't compare to the top-tier elite families filling the room tonight—but for him, they were still a ladder to climb.
And besides, with a less prestigious background, she wouldn't have as much leverage over him. If anything, he could have leverage over her.
He smiled faintly.
He tucked the tray under his arm and hurried toward the elevator bank.
He watched Xiomara press the button for the eighteenth floor, watched her pull a room key from her clutch, watched her enter room 1809.
Then he turned toward the service desk, pulled a master key card from the drawer, and swiped into 1808 next door.
As the gala moved into its latter half, Octavius loosened his collar.
Valencia was the first to notice something was off. She set down her glass and asked quietly what was wrong.
Octavius shook his head, saying it was nothing—probably just strong liquor.
But Seraphine had been watching him for several seconds now. His ears were flushed an unnatural red, his fingers gripped the glass tighter than usual, and his breathing was shallow and rapid—like he was suppressing something.
"What did you drink?" she asked.
Octavius looked down at the glass in his hand, frowning.
He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled a room key from his jacket pocket and handed it to Seraphine, his voice lower than usual.
"Call Ethan for me."
Then he turned and strode quickly toward the elevators.
His posture was still upright, but his steps were long and urgent—as though his rationality was physically dragging his body out of the room.
Octavius entered the elevator and pressed a floor button.
He was alone. The metallic walls reflected his face—eyes faintly red, jawline taut like a string about to snap.
He took a deep breath and clenched his fists.
The drug was hitting harder and faster than he'd expected. His vision was already starting to blur.
He glanced down at the number on the room key. The digits swam in his sight before he barely made them out—1808.
When the elevator doors opened, Seraphine was already standing in the hallway.
She hadn't called Ethan.
The moment Octavius left the ballroom, she'd known something was wrong. Whatever he'd taken was hitting too fast, too hard—not something a phone call could fix.
She'd come up ahead of him, planning to assess his condition first.
She walked to the door of 1808 and pressed the doorbell.
The door opened.
Xiomara reclined on the bed in room 1809, wearing only a hotel bathrobe.
Only a single bedside lamp was lit, its warm yellow glow falling across her bare shoulders. The collar of the robe hung dangerously low.
She heard footsteps in the hallway drawing closer, her lips curving into a confident arc.
Then the lights went out—not by her hand. Someone had cut the power from outside.
She froze for a moment, then decided it made sense. Octavius probably didn't want to be recognized.
He was, after all, the FitzRoy family heir. Caution was reasonable.
The door was pushed open, then closed. The lock clicked into place.
In the darkness, she couldn't make out the person's face—only a tall silhouette moving toward the bed.
She reached out, her voice as soft as water. "You're here."
A man's rough hand slid across her back. Xiomara let out a coquettish gasp, her mind hazy with confusion—were Octavius's hands really this rough?
Seraphine swiped the room key to open 1808.
The lights were on inside—cold white light pouring down from the ceiling, leaving nothing hidden.
The first thing she saw was something she shouldn't have—
Octavius leaning against the wall by the window. His suit jacket was already off, thrown on the floor. Three buttons of his shirt were undone, the lines of his collarbone and chest visible beneath the disheveled fabric.
His eyes were closed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. His entire body looked like a bowstring drawn taut—ready to snap at any moment.
This was very, very wrong.
Seraphine closed the door.
She hurried toward him, pulling medical tools from her portable kit.
Octavius opened his eyes.
Gone was the usual composure and restraint. His pupils churned with a scorching emotion.
He looked at her—like she was the only vine at the edge of a cliff.
"Don't move." Seraphine lifted her hand to restrain his wrist. She could hear his heartbeat—rapid and erratic.
As she examined his condition, Octavius suddenly reached out and caught her wrist.
His palm was burning hot, five fingers locked around her wrist bone—not heavy pressure, but unyielding.
Then he took a step forward and pulled her entirely into his arms.