I gave my seat to an elderly woman on the bus, and before she got off, she whispered, “When your husband gives you a necklace, put it in water, and whatever you do, don’t wear it.” A week later, my husband showed up with a velvet box. I smiled, thanked him, and that night, I left the necklace soaking in a glass of water… By morning, the water had revealed something terrifying.

The Grand Ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel gleamed with crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and the soft, swelling harmonies of a string quartet. Five hundred of the city’s financial elite mingled beneath gilded ceilings, their laughter mingling with the clinking of crystal flutes.

Julian stood near the sweeping marble staircase, immaculate in a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo. Beside him, Morgan was a vision in an emerald-green silk gown that left her shoulders and collarbones bare. Clamped firmly around her throat was the necklace.

Julian’s eyes drifted to her neck every few minutes. He was attentive, overly solicitous, fetching her champagne and guiding her through introductions with managing partners and venture capitalists.

"You look breathtaking tonight, darling," Julian murmured, handing her a glass of sparkling water. "Truly. The sapphires catch the light like stars."

"Thank you, Julian," Morgan said, taking a delicate sip. "I have to admit, you were right. The fit is perfect. It feels... warm against my skin."

Julian’s fingers twitched against his champagne glass. A flicker of triumph flared in his dark eyes, so raw and predatory that it sent a chill cascading through Morgan’s veins despite her knowledge that the necklace was completely clean.

"Does it?" Julian asked, his voice a low purr. "That’s the beauty of custom-cast metals. They absorb your body heat. They become a part of you."

Morgan checked the gold pocket watch resting on the display table nearby. It was 9:45 PM. According to Gabriel’s email schedule, the transdermal absorption should have initiated an hour ago. The first physiological symptoms—lightheadedness, shortness of breath, and a slight tremor in the extremities—were supposed to manifest precisely now.

Morgan placed her glass on a passing waiter’s tray and reached up, lightly touching her temple with two fingers. She let her knees sway, just a fraction of an inch, and leaned heavily against Julian’s arm.

"Julian..." she whispered, her voice faltering with practiced weakness. "I feel... suddenly quite warm. The room is spinning a bit."

Julian’s arm instantly wrapped around her waist. His grip was not the supportive embrace of an anxious husband; it was an iron clamp holding her in place, ensuring she stayed visible to the room.

"It’s just the crowd, sweetheart," Julian said loudly enough for the couple standing adjacent—Arthur Vance and his wife—to hear. "You've been working too hard this week. Take a deep breath. Arthur, could you call the hotel concierge? I think Morgan might be having a reaction to something."

"I... I need some fresh air," Morgan gasped, clutching Julian’s lapel, her breath turning shallow and rapid. "Please, Julian. The terrace."

"Of course, darling. Let me help you," Julian said, his voice dripping with faux anguish as he began steering her toward the double glass doors leading to the deserted east balcony. Over his shoulder, Morgan caught sight of a tall, gaunt man standing near the service entrance, wearing an ill-fitting caterer’s jacket.

He was staring directly at Morgan’s neck with cold, clinical fascination.