Ch.23: The Poisoned Chalice

The gala was in full swing. Waiters circulated with silver trays of champagne and canapés, weaving through the crowd of billionaires and politicians.

Thorne had left me by the buffet table, surrounded by a gaggle of socialites who wanted to coo over Daisy.

"He's giving a speech in ten minutes," Leo whispered, appearing at my elbow with a tray of empty glasses. "I planted the bug in the study. But the reception is fuzzy. I need him closer to the receiver."

"Where is the receiver?"

"Under the podium."

I scanned the room. Thorne was currently holding court near the bar, looking relaxed, triumphant. He had a crystal tumbler of scotch in his hand.

"I need to get him to the podium early," I murmured. "Or at least disoriented enough that he slips up."

I looked at the champagne flute in my hand. I wasn't drinking it. I was holding it as a prop.

But I had something else in my pocket. A small vial of chloral hydrate—a sedative I'd swiped from the lab during my last 'prep' session. It wasn't enough to knock him out, but it was enough to make him slur, make him loose-lipped.

"Distract them," I told Leo.

Leo nodded. He turned and 'accidentally' bumped into a Senator, sending a tray of appetizers crashing to the floor.

"Oh! My apologies, sir!"

The crowd turned. Chaos ensued.

In the confusion, I moved. I slipped through the throng toward Thorne. He had set his glass down on a high table while he shook hands with a donor.

I reached out, my hand hovering over his glass.

*Plink.*

A single drop. Clear. Odorless.

I pulled back, my heart racing.

Thorne turned back to his drink. He picked it up. He raised it to his lips.

I watched, holding my breath.

"Julian!"

Isabella's voice cut through the noise. She was descending the grand staircase, looking like a queen in a gown of midnight blue.

Thorne lowered his glass.

"Isabella," he said, smiling. "You look radiant."

"I feel radiant," she said, gliding toward him. She stopped, her eyes landing on the glass in his hand. "Is that the 25-year reserve?"

"It is."

"Let me taste."

Before I could move, before I could shout a warning, she took the glass from his hand.

"No!" I whispered, but it was lost in the swell of the string quartet.

Isabella drained the glass.

She drank the whole thing. The scotch. The sedative. Enough to knock a grown man onto his ass in five minutes.

I waited for her eyes to roll back. I waited for her to stumble.

She handed the empty glass back to Thorne, wiping her lips delicately.

"Delicious," she purred. "But a bit dry."

She didn't sway. She didn't slur. Her pupils didn't even dilate.

She smiled at me, a cold, knowing smile that sent a shiver down my spine.

"The speech, Julian," she said, linking her arm through his. "They're waiting."

They walked away toward the podium, leaving me standing there in shock.

Chloral hydrate is a powerful sedative. A dose that size should have put her on the floor. Unless...

Unless she had built up a tolerance. A massive tolerance.

I watched her walk, her spine straight, her steps steady.

Why does a 'fragile' dying woman have the tolerance of a junkie?