Chapter 2 - The Seconds That Saved Him
The room held its breath. Two hundred of the most powerful people on the East Coast stood frozen, staring at a twenty-four-year-old maid in a starch-white collar holding her ground against Marcus Blackwood.
“He isn't choking,” Maya said rapidly, her voice shaking but clear. “When someone chokes on solid food, they clutch their windpipe and strain upward. His shoulders are twisting inward. His fingers are cramping into claw shapes—that's a neurological spasm, not airway blockage. Look at his glass, Mr. Blackwood!”
Marcus didn't hesitate. He dropped his gaze to Caleb's half-empty glass of cranberry juice. Under the intense glare of the crystal chandelier, the faint, shimmering rainbow oil slick floated on top of the dark red liquid.
“Organophosphate or an industrial hydrocarbon solvent,” Maya blurted out, relying on the terrifying memory of her uncle's hospital bed. “It causes muscular paralysis, excess fluid in the throat, and immediate laryngeal spasm. If you do the Heimlich, his diaphragm will spasm, he'll inhale the stomach fluid into his lungs, and he will drown in seconds.”
“She's insane!” Dr. Harrison, a prominent surgeon who was among the gala guests, stepped forward with a condescending sneer. “She's a housemaid making medical diagnoses! The boy is clearly choking on a piece of steak. As a board-certified doctor, I command you to let me perform abdominal thrusts immediately!”
“Did you look at his plate, Doctor?” Maya snapped, turning on him with an intensity that shocked even Mrs. Bellamy. “His steak hasn't been touched! The knife is clean! The napkin isn't even unrolled! You're looking at his title, not his symptoms!”
Caleb let out a horrifying, wet gurgle. His eyelids fluttered back, showing only the whites. His small body went rigid, his knees knocking against the mahogany table leg.
Marcus Blackwood made his decision in a fraction of a second. He grabbed Dr. Harrison by the lapels of his tuxedo and threw him backward into a table of champagne towers with enough force to shatter twenty glasses.
“Touch my son and I will end you,” Marcus snarled. He turned back to Maya, his eyes burning with absolute desperation. “What do I do?”
“Lay him flat on his left side right now!” Maya ordered, dropping to her knees on the marble floor. “Left side down! It slows stomach emptying into the bloodstream! We need to clear his airway manually, but do not compress his stomach!”
Marcus didn't question her. The billionaire dropped to the floor, uncaring of his four-thousand-dollar suit, and gently laid his son on his side.
Maya reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a clean linen service napkin. Wrapping it around her fingers, she gently pried Caleb's locked jaw open. “Hold his head steady!” she told Marcus.
She swept her fingers into the back of the boy's throat, clearing out the thick, frothy saliva that was suffocating him. Caleb gasped—a terrible, raspy sound—and a tiny breath of air entered his lungs.
“He's breathing!” Someone whispered from the crowd.
“Call an ambulance!” a woman shrieked.
“No ambulance,” Marcus barked without looking up. He reached into his coat and pressed a button on an encrypted comms device. “Vance. Get the helicopter on the roof. Full trauma kit. Chemical toxicity protocol. NOW.”
Caleb's body relaxed slightly, the immediate suffocation halted, but his pulse was thumping wildly against his neck, his skin clammy and pale.
Maya looked up from the floor, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She met Marcus Blackwood's gaze. For a second, the terrifying mobster-billionaire looked at the maid with something similar to awe—and profound debt.
Then the side doors of the ballroom burst open.
A man in a navy suit rushed toward them, but it wasn't a doctor. It was Thomas Blackwood, Marcus's younger brother and the vice president of Blackwood Shipping. His hair was slightly disheveled, his tie crooked.
“Marcus! What happened? Is he okay?!” Thomas gasped, panting heavily. “I was in the lounge taking a call—I came as soon as I heard!”
Maya's eyes shifted from Thomas's face down to his right hand.
He was wearing light leather gloves, despite being inside a heated ballroom. And on the cuff of his left sleeve, barely visible against the dark fabric, was a tiny, wet drop of dark red liquid that smelled faintly of bitter almonds and petroleum.
Maya's breath caught in her chest.
May you like
She looked from the drop of juice on Thomas's sleeve to the poisoned glass on the table. Thomas caught her staring. His eyes narrowed into small, vicious slits, a flash of pure malice crossing his face before he smoothed it over with fake concern.
It wasn't an accident, Maya realized, her blood running cold. The poison didn't come from the kitchen. It came from inside the family.
