Chapter 215
Raven
He turned to the room at large. "See? This is what I love about new money! Old money would never admit their spouses terrify them. But these two?" He gestured at us. "Honest. Brutal. Refreshing."
Laughter rippled through the room. Forced. Nervous. The kind that comes when everyone's afraid to disagree with the man holding all the cards.
I maintained Marianne's territorial smile, hand still possessively on Nash's arm. My pulse hammered against my wrist, counting seconds. Waiting for the trap to spring.
Because this was too easy. The Surgeon didn't strike me as someone who accepted deflection without probing deeper.
Come on, you bastard. Show me what you're really after.
The Surgeon reached into his inner jacket pocket with deliberate slowness. Everyone's attention locked onto that movement—the promise of revelation, or threat, or both.
He produced a small silver case. Sleek. Expensive. The kind that screamed classified pharmaceutical research rather than personal medication.
My stomach tightened.
The case clicked open. Inside, a dozen capsules lined up in a pristine row, each one a different color—electric blue, deep crimson, acid green, sunset orange. They caught the light like tiny jewels, beautiful and deadly.
"Speaking of refreshing honesty," The Surgeon said, his voice taking on that particular tone of casual menace that made my skin crawl. "Anthony just mentioned his... vigorous evening activities left him somewhat incapacitated."
He selected one of the blue capsules, holding it up between thumb and forefinger like a priest displaying communion.
"As a friend, I simply must offer a welcome gift."
Oh shit.
Nash's hand tightened fractionally against my waist. Not panic—just heightened alert. The same signal we'd use before a hot extraction: be ready for anything.
"This," The Surgeon continued, moving closer to Nash, "is a derivative of Synthesis-47. Code name: Euphoria." He pronounced it with reverence, like naming a beloved child. "It blocks pain receptors while amplifying pleasure centers. Continuous orgasmic response for up to twelve hours."
Several of the investors leaned forward. I caught Chen Wei's sharp inhale, Maria Santos's predatory interest.
The Surgeon extended the capsule toward Nash's mouth. "Try it. This will help you reclaim your... vigor. Make you impervious to your lovely wife's excessive demands."
The room held its breath.
Nash froze for exactly one second.
Then his face transformed—from Anthony's controlled facade into something like genuine delight. Pure, unfiltered excitement that looked so real I almost believed it myself.
"Holy shit!" Nash grabbed The Surgeon's wrist—carefully, I noted, avoiding direct skin contact with the pill itself—and stared at the capsule like it was the Holy Grail. "Are you fucking serious? This is exactly what I need!"
He turned to me, eyes wide with manufactured enthusiasm. "Baby, did you hear that? Twelve hours! I could actually keep up with you!"
That's my boy. Commit to the bit.
"Hell yes!" Chandler called out from across the room. "Doc, you holding out on us? I'll take a case!"
"Me too," Dimitri added, practically salivating. "How much per dose?"
The Surgeon smiled, clearly pleased by the response. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—never left Nash's face. Still testing. Still probing.
"Unfortunately," he said, voice turning silky, "there's a small complication."
There it is.
Nash's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. Perfect actor's instinct—show just enough disappointment to seem genuine. "What kind of complication?"
"The compound requires ten hours to fully metabolize and activate." The Surgeon's smile widened. "So if you're planning evening activities, you'd need to take it now."
The temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees.
My mind raced through possibilities:
Option A: Nash takes it, gets drugged, operation blown.
Option B: Nash refuses, raises suspicion, operation blown.
Option C: Create a distraction big enough that—
Fuck options.
I moved.
One fluid motion—I snatched the capsule from The Surgeon's fingers before anyone could process what was happening. My hand moved so fast it blurred, a skill honed from years of disarming targets before they could pull triggers.
The capsule sat in my palm, warm from The Surgeon's body heat.
Every eye in the room locked onto me.
"Give it to him?" I let Marianne's possessive insanity flood my voice, pitching it loud enough to drown out any protest. "Absolutely fucking not."
Nash's eyes widened—genuine surprise this time, mixed with concern so subtle only I would catch it. What are you doing?
Trust me, I tried to telegraph back. Just trust me.
I held the capsule up to the light, examining it like a jeweler appraising a diamond. "You think I'm going to waste this miracle drug on his recovery? After what he put me through last night?"
My peripheral vision caught everything: The Surgeon's calculating stare. Chandler's shock. The other investors' confusion shifting to morbid fascination.
I continued, voice dripping with Marianne's unhinged logic: "His pain is my revenge. My beautiful, well-earned revenge for making me scream loud enough that hotel security called twice."
Scattered nervous laughter.
"But this?" I rolled the capsule between my fingers. "Twelve hours of amplified pleasure? That's not for him. That's for me."
The Surgeon's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Mrs. Goodman—"