Chapter5 I’m not your fucking toy. I’m not your scapegoat

Maeve Thorne

The heavy double doors swung open with a deep thud that vibrated through my bones.

The two armed operatives shoved me forward into the VIP lounge. I stumbled but caught myself in the center of the room, cuffs biting into my wrists, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

My eyes swept the space automatically, the way any doctor scans for threats. But the first thing I locked onto was him.

Silas Voss sat at the head of the table in that pristine white three-piece suit, white-gold cuff links flashing under the chandelier. Those long fingers rested on his cards with effortless control.

The same man who had been inside me hours ago. The same hands that had left bruises I could still feel.

My breath caught.

Only then did I notice the others.

To his right sat Gideon Adler, the golden-haired bastard who ordered my arrest. His ice-blue eyes flicked over me with mocking amusement before returning to his cards.

On Silas’s left was Viktor Kruger, broad and heavy, the authority ring on his left finger catching the light as he lit a fresh cigar. He didn’t even glance my way.

I forced my gaze past the table, trying to steady my breathing. That’s when I saw her.

A woman in a deep purple evening gown knelt gracefully beside Silas’s chair. Not sitting. Kneeling. Her posture was perfect as she reached up to adjust his chip stack like it was an honor.

What the actual fuck?

As a neurologist with years of academic training, I had studied every level of human behavior. But this?

A grown woman in designer silk on her knees in a room full of powerful men, acting like his personal attendant? It hit me like a slap. Are you kidding me right now? Is this normal entertainment here? Disgust flooded me, sharp and bitter.

This wasn’t submission. This was expensive, degrading theater.

I swallowed hard and looked away. These weren’t random rich assholes. They were the Inner Circle. I had read their profiles during orientation, back when I still believed this job was only about saving lives and paying for Lira’s medication.

Viktor handled the real power plays. Gideon represented state-sponsored violence that didn’t need rules. And Silas was the gravity everything orbited around.

They kept playing like I wasn’t even there.

I stood handcuffed in the middle of the floor for what felt like forever. No one offered me a seat. No one spoke to me. No one looked at me. I was furniture. A breathing exhibit dropped here for their later amusement.

The anger came first, hot and vicious. I had fought to save lives on this ship. I had stood over Damian’s body trying to find the truth while his wife screamed in my face.

But underneath the rage was cold, crushing fear. These men didn’t see a doctor. They saw a problem. A disposable pawn.

If they took me off this ship, I would never see Lira again. I would disappear into some black hole and that would be the end of me.

I hated how small I felt. I hated that part of me still waited for Silas to look up, to show any sign that I mattered. He never did.

The game finally ended.

Silas pushed his last card forward without expression. The pile of chips became his. The wall screen flashed three billion euros.

Outside the windows, three golden holographic griffins burst into the night sky and circled the ship three times, their wings carving brilliant trails across the darkness. A silent victory announcement to the entire ocean.

Viktor exhaled smoke and shoved his chips away with a dry laugh. “Playing you is pointless, Voss. I don’t know why I keep forgetting.”

Silas didn’t react. He looked at the winnings like they meant nothing.

Gideon drained his whiskey. “Mr. Voss, the Las Vegas group invited you to a private game next month in Monaco. They’d be honored if you came.”

Viktor tightened his grip on the cigar and rolled his signet ring slowly. “Adler, you know the rules. Nobody leaves this ship without approval.”

The tension sharpened. I knew I was the reason. The unnamed prize they were fighting over.

Viktor stood and stretched his thick shoulders. His eyes finally landed on me, narrowing slightly as he took in the cuffs and my rigid posture. He raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with dark amusement.

“She belongs to you?” he asked Silas, tone casual, like he was inquiring about a new pet or a piece of property.

My heart stopped.

Silas lifted his gaze. Those dark eyes swept over me once, completely indifferent. He gave one small shake of his head.

The denial hit like a blade. I couldn’t breathe. Hours ago he had whispered my name while buried inside me. Now he looked at me like a stranger.

The rejection carved something deep and ugly out of my chest, filling it with raw despair.

Gideon rose and crossed the room. His fingers caught my chin, forcing my face up. The touch was cold and possessive. I wanted to spit at him but the cuffs held me trapped.

“Not his,” Gideon announced so the whole room could hear. “Mine. To be precise… my suspect.”

He released my chin and circled me slowly like livestock. Every eye turned to me. The woman beside Silas looked up with cool superiority and pity, like I was a lesser creature about to be put down.

Viktor whistled. “Pretty. Real shame.”

Gideon stopped behind me. His voice cut through the silence.

“The man frozen in your meat locker, Damian Clark, our senior operative in Europe? She’s the one who killed him.”

The words dropped like stones.

All eyes locked on me at once. Curiosity. Contempt. Amusement. No sympathy.

I felt ice spread from my spine until it filled every part of me. I wasn’t just a suspect anymore. I was a murderer on display, a disposable pawn in their power game.

*Fuck you. All of you. *The rage exploded inside my chest, hot and violent. I’m not your fucking toy. I’m not your scapegoat.

But I knew screaming it out loud would only make things worse. So I forced the fury down, locked it behind my teeth, and drew in a slow, deliberate breath the way I did before every high-stakes procedure.

My voice came out steady, cold, and professional even though my hands were still shaking inside the cuffs.

“I’m Dr. Maeve Thorne,” I said, locking eyes with Gideon. “I’m serving as the temporary ship physician on the Elysium. Damian Clark did receive treatment from me earlier that evening, but I administered a standard sedative. His death had nothing to do with me. The medication was swapped.”

The words hung in the air, cold and final. Inside my chest, the despair grew heavier with every second.

These weren’t doctors. These were men who traded lives like poker chips. Would any of my explanations even matter?

The thought kept repeating in my head, louder and darker, dragging me deeper into hopelessness.