Chapter 145: The Ceremony Begins

Guests flooded the Palmer Tower ballroom in waves of designer fabrics and luxury perfumes.

The elite of New York smiled and clinked champagne flutes while I sat dying in the corner, my body on fire from the inside out.

Every face blurred together—sports commissioners, politicians, celebrities—all here to witness Victoria's triumphant moment. All oblivious to the murder happening right before their eyes.

I shifted in my chair, each movement sending fresh bolts of agony through my body.

The crimson corruption had soaked through my sleeve now, the fabric stained dark like a spreading bloodstain.

My fingers clutched the junction box key my father had pressed into my palm, the metal edges cutting into my skin.

That tiny piece of metal represented my only chance, and it felt pathetically inadequate against Victoria's army of security guards and medical technicians.

God, the pain was getting worse.

Each pulse of the corrupted marks felt like barbed wire being dragged through my veins.

I bit down hard on my lip to keep from screaming, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

Thirty feet to the maintenance panel beneath the stage. Might as well have been thirty miles.

"You're stronger than I anticipated," Alexander Palmer said, appearing beside me like a ghost in an expensive suit. The aristocratic lines of his face reminded me so much of Victoria it made my skin crawl. "Most subjects are comatose at this stage of corruption."

"Fuck you," I managed, no energy left for clever comebacks. My law school professors would be so disappointed.

His lips twitched with amusement. "Such hostility. Especially considering I gave you the only chance you had."

"You set me up," I hissed through clenched teeth. "You knew Victoria would find out about the counteragent."

"Business, Ms. Winters." He adjusted his platinum cufflinks with practiced indifference. "Victoria made a compelling counteroffer. Nothing personal."

The crowd suddenly shifted, a murmur running through the room like a wave.

My heart lurched painfully against my ribs as the crowd parted to reveal Caspian.

Jesus Christ.

I barely recognized him.

He moved like a mannequin on strings, his eyes vacant, skin ashen beneath the ballroom lights.

Gone was the confident quarterback who commanded the field, the man who'd saved me from Robert, who'd taken a bullet for me.

Whatever they'd pumped into his system had hollowed him out, leaving just the shell of Caspian Drake.

Our eyes met across the crowded ballroom.

For a split second—so brief I might have imagined it—something flickered in those empty green depths.

Recognition.

Desperation.

A flash of the real Caspian fighting to surface.

Then it vanished, submerged beneath whatever drugs Victoria had flooded his system with.

The corrupted marks on my wrist exploded with white-hot agony at the eye contact, the pain so intense black spots danced across my vision.

A strangled sound escaped my throat, somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

Victoria appeared beside Caspian in a shimmering silver gown that made her look like she'd been dipped in liquid mercury.

Her hand possessively gripped his arm as she beamed at the assembled guests.

The fake pregnancy bump beneath her gown made me want to vomit—or maybe that was just the mark corruption eating through my nervous system.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, her voice carrying effortlessly through the space. "Thank you for joining us for this momentous occasion."

I scanned the room desperately for any sign of Isolde or my father.

Nothing.

The junction box key dug deeper into my palm as I clenched my fist.

My vision kept blurring, darkness creeping in at the edges.

Not now.

I couldn't pass out now.

"Tonight we celebrate not just love," Victoria continued, guiding Caspian toward the stage like a prize show dog, "but the union of two dynasties. The Palmer legacy and the Drake athletic excellence, joined forever."

The disguised medical equipment hummed to life around the platform—sterile and clinical beneath the wedding decorations.

The technicians moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting dials on what appeared to be sound equipment but were actually the frequency generators designed to finalize the mark transfer.

My murder weapon, dressed in ribbons and roses.

A commotion erupted near a service entrance, drawing the attention of security guards.

My heart leapt—was it Isolde?

My father?

The hope died as quickly as it had flared when I realized it was just a caterer who'd dropped a tray.

"Before we begin our ceremony," Victoria said, positioning Caspian center stage, her red-tipped fingers digging into his arm, "I'd like to acknowledge our special guest."

Her blue eyes locked with mine, triumph gleaming in their depths.

"Sage Winters has joined us tonight. Caspian's former attorney... and so much more."

The crowd turned to stare.

I felt their curious eyes on me—the strange woman with the cast and the sickly pallor. I forced myself to sit straighter despite the agony ripping through me.

I wouldn't give Victoria the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

"Our ceremony requires special musical accompaniment," Victoria announced, signaling to the technicians. "A unique frequency that symbolizes our perfect harmony."

The first notes filled the air—not music but a precisely calibrated tone that sliced through me like a surgeon's knife.

The marks on my wrist erupted in blinding agony, the crimson corruption pulsing visibly through my shirt as it spread toward my heart.

I couldn't hold back the scream this time, the sound torn from my throat.

On stage, Caspian collapsed to his knees, his body convulsing. Security personnel grabbed him before he could hit the floor, holding him upright like a puppet while Victoria smiled benevolently at the concerned murmurs from the crowd.

"Just pre-wedding jitters," she explained with a practiced laugh. "Now, shall we begin?"

My head spun, consciousness slipping away as the frequency generators intensified.

The last golden flecks in my marks were fading, consumed by the spreading crimson corruption.

I could feel death approaching—not the abstract concept but a physical presence crawling through my veins toward my heart.

I clutched the junction box key so tightly it sliced into my palm, blood dripping between my fingers onto the polished marble floor.

The maintenance panel my father had identified was just beneath the edge of the stage.

If I could reach it...

With the last reserves of my strength, I pushed myself to my feet, legs trembling beneath me like a newborn foal's.

The room spun violently, but I locked my focus on that stage, on Caspian's vacant eyes.

I'd never believed in soulmates or destiny—that was for people who hadn't seen the ugliness I had.

But whatever connected us through these marks was real.

And I'd be damned if I let Victoria Palmer take that from us without a fight.

One foot in front of the other.

One last desperate chance.