Chapter 63
Chapter 63:
“Don’t start,” Liam warned. “Listen, I need you to unfreeze the joint account. Just for a week. I have a vendor payment that needs to clear and p>
“No,” Skye said.
“Skye, be reasonable p>
“I am being reasonable. I’m protecting my assets from your bad judgment p>
In the background, Harper turned on the TV. A soap opera was playing. A male actor shouted, “Darling, come back to bed p>
Liam went silent.
“Who is that?” Liam whispered. The jealousy in his voice was so thick it was almost tangible. “Is there a man there p>
Skye looked at the TV. She looked at the rambutan.
“Yes,” Skye said. “He’s very prickly, but he tastes delicious p>
She hung up.
Liam, sitting in his office, stared at the phone. His face turned a dangerous shade of red. Prickly? Tastes delicious?
He slammed the phone down, cracking the receiver.
The Quinn Family Gala was the event of the season. Held at the Cliffside Hotel, a venue perched precariously on the edge of a granite bluff overlooking the ocean, it was a display of obscene wealth. Crystal chandeliers hung from open-air pavilions, and the sound of crashing waves competed with a live string quartet.
Skye arrived in a vintage Rolls Royce, courtesy of Alistair’s fleet. She stepped out wearing midnight-blue silk. The dress was modest in cut—high neck, long sleeves—but the back was completely open, draping low to reveal the elegant curve of her spine. It was the kind of dress that whispered money rather than shouting it.
Harper met her at the entrance. “You look like a goddess of the night. Come on, the champagne is cold p>
They moved through the crowd. Skye nodded to investors she knew would be useful for Oracle Holdings. She was working the room, not as a wife, but as a predator scouting territory.
𝗨𝗻𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿іe𝗱 c𝗵𝗮p𝘵е𝗿𝗌 𝗈𝘯 𝖻𝘦.с𝘰m
From the VIP balcony above, Alistair Thorne watched her. He held a glass of whiskey, his dark eyes tracking her movement through the sea of tuxedos.
“She moves like she owns the place,” Felix commented, standing beside him.
“She will, one day,” Alistair murmured.
Down below, a commotion stirred near the entrance.
Seraphina Miller had arrived.
She was not wearing midnight blue. She was wearing bright, fire-engine red. It was a cocktail dress, too short for a white-tie gala, with sequins that caught the light aggressively. She was hanging onto the arm of Manager Zheng, a mid-level executive at Kensington Global who was known for his gambling debts and wandering eye.
Seraphina looked desperate. Her smile was too wide, her laughter too loud. She was trying to dazzle, but she just looked like a flare gun going off in a library.
Manager Zheng was sweating. He tried to steer her toward the bar, but Seraphina pulled him toward the center of the room, scanning the crowd.
She spotted Skye.