The Poisoned Glass

​POV: Malia

​The second act began under a cloud of stifling tension. Jarrah’s hand had not left my lower back since the lights went down, his fingers pressing into my waist with an intensity that bordered on possessive control. He was angry. I could feel the violent tension coiled in his muscles, the dark storm brewing just beneath his impeccable composure.

​"Drink some water," Jarrah said softly, his deep voice vibrating through my spine as he reached for the crystal decanter resting on the small mahogany table in the corner of our private box. "You’re pale, Malia."

​"I'm fine," I replied, though my throat felt raw. The red laser dot we had spotted earlier had vanished the moment the crowd erupted into applause at the end of Act One, but the threat hadn't left the room. It had simply shifted forms.

​A white-gloved server slipped silently through the side drape of our box, his eyes downturned, carrying a silver tray with two fresh glasses of ice-chilled red wine. He placed them silently on the small table, bowed low, and backed out into the dim hallway without making a sound.

​"I didn't order wine," I murmured, watching the server retreat through the crack in the heavy curtain.

​"I did," Jarrah lied smoothly for the benefit of any watching eyes, though his eyes narrowed as he watched the dark liquid settle in the crystal.

​The aria swelled once more, a mournful soprano lamenting lost love. Outside, the rich and powerful of Melbourne sat mesmerized, oblivious to the silent war being fought ten feet above their heads.

​I reached out my hand toward the glass on the left, my fingers cold, seeking anything to cut through the dry heat rising in my chest. "We need to get the audio file off the local server before Vance leaves his seat," I whispered, my fingers inching closer to the stem of the glass. "If he steps out during the interval, he'll wipe the cloud backup."

​"Malia, wait", Jarrah began.

​My fingers brushed the cool glass.

​In the dim light reflected from the stage below, a tiny, iridescent ring began to form where the liquid met the crystal rim. A microscopic fizz, almost invisible, bubbled along the inside of the glass, releasing a faint, bitter vapor that caught the back of my throat.

​Before my brain could register the chemical reaction, Jarrah moved.

​His reaction was blindingly fast, driven by sheer, violent instinct. His arm lashed out, his large hand clamping around the crystal glass a fraction of a millimeter before it reached my lips.

​Clack!

​The force of his movement sent the wine sloshing over the side, droplets of the dark red liquid burning faint, microscopic pits into the polished mahogany table below.

​"Don't touch it!" Jarrah roared in a harsh, strangled whisper, his face turning deathly pale before transforming into an expression of raw, unbridled fury.

​He shoved the glass away, smashing it against the rear wall of the box where it shattered silently against the thick drapery. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me roughly against his chest, his hands frantically scanning my face, my lips, my neck.

​"Did you drink it? Tell me! Did it touch your lips, Malia?!" His voice cracked with a terrifying panic I had never heard from him before. The ruthless, calculating CEO was gone; in his place was a man entirely unhinged by the thought of my death.

​"No," I gasped, my lungs seizing as the realization hit me. "No, Jarrah, I didn't catch it."

​He let out a ragged, shaking breath, his forehead dropping against mine for a split second. His chest heaved against my ribs, his heartbeat wild and frantic. "If they had touched you..." he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, murderous register. "If I had been a second late..."

​He straightened up abruptly, all warmth draining from his features, leaving behind a terrifying, lifeless stone. His eyes flicked toward the side drape where the server had vanished moments ago.

​"Jarrah, don't," I warned, reaching for his arm. "It's a trap. They want you to break composure."

​"They tried to poison you in front of me," he said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. He reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulling a sleek, silenced sidearm from its holster with practiced ease. "They think they can touch what is mine."

​"Jarrah!"

​He paid no attention to my plea. Driven by a possessive, blinding rage, he ripped open the heavy velvet curtain of the box and strode out into the dim, deserted backstage corridor of the Arts Centre.

​I scrambled after him, holding up the heavy train of my emerald gown, the cold air of the hallway slamming into my face.

​Further down the carpeted hallway, the server was walking briskly toward the service stairs, his white gloves discarded on the floor.

​"Hey," Jarrah’s voice echoed down the corridor, cold as a tombstone.

​The server froze, turning slowly. In one fluid motion, the man drew a weapon from his apron.

​Jarrah didn't hesitate. He closed the distance like a predator, lunging forward before the man could raise his barrel. He grabbed the assassin's wrist, slamming it viciously against the concrete wall. The gun dropped with a heavy thud onto the carpet. Jarrah drove his knee into the man's ribs, pinning him against the wall with a hand wrapped tightly around his throat.

​"Who sent you?" Jarrah snarled, his thumb pressing into the man's carotid artery with lethal precision. "Give me a name before I break your neck against this frame."

​The server choked, his eyes bulging, a cruel, bloodied smirk spreading across his lips despite the suffocating pressure.

​"It... doesn't matter... who sent me," the man wheezed, his fingers clawing uselessly at Jarrah's iron grip. "Look at... the stage..."

​My stomach plunged. I turned back toward the private box, stepping out onto the small balcony ledge overlooking the massive auditorium below.

​Down on the main stage, the lead soprano was reaching the high note of her aria. But behind her, the heavy iron fire curtain was slowly, silently beginning to descend, locking the entire lower auditorium inside.

​And from the shadow of Vance's box directly across from us, a high-caliber rifle barrel slowly slid over the brass railing, pointing not at Jarrah, but directly at the center of the crowded front row where my younger sister sat alone.