Chapter 118
Chapter 118:
“Sir, are you sure?” the lawyer had asked. “After what she did p>
“I don’t want the press to have a field day with ‘Kensington’s Girlfriend Rots in Jail,’” Liam had replied coldly. “Get her out. Put her in a hotel. But tell her… tell her not to call me p>
Liam sat in the back of his rental car, staring at the mask depicted on the invitation. A wolf. A predator.
A strange foreboding settled in his gut. It felt like he was walking into a trap, but his pride wouldn’t let him turn back.
The gothic mansion stood on a cliff overlooking the ocean, its stone spires piercing the foggy night sky. It was a rental property, owned by a shell company of a shell company—untraceable to Skye. Tonight, it was the stage for the Oracle Masquerade Ball.
Inside, the air was thick with mystery and decadence. Chandeliers dripped crystals like frozen tears. The guests—the elite of the business world—wore masks that ranged from beautiful to grotesque. Anonymity bred boldness; laughter was louder, and drinks were consumed faster.
Liam entered the main hall. He wore a silver wolf mask that covered the upper half of his face. His jaw was set, his eyes scanning the room with predatory intensity. He leaned slightly on his cane, the silver wolf-head handle gleaming under the lights. He ignored the champagne trays offered by waiters in velvet liveries. He wasn’t here to party. He was here to hunt.
“Mr. Morgan,” Liam muttered to himself. “Where are you p>
On the balcony overlooking the dance floor, a figure appeared.
“Mr. Morgan” was striking. He wore a midnight-blue suit that fit impeccably. He had short, dark hair—a wig, styled with precision. His jawline seemed sharper, his neck thicker. He stood with one hand in his pocket, radiating an aura of bored power.
Skye looked down at the crowd through the eyeholes of her Venetian mask. It was silver filigree, covering her entire face except for her mouth and chin.
She saw the silver wolf. Liam.
She took a deep breath, feeling the tight binding around her chest restrict her lungs. Showtime.
𝘚𝗁а𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎r f𝘢vо𝗿𝗂𝗍𝖾𝘀 𝘧𝗿om 𝘣𝗲.cо𝘮
She descended the grand staircase. She moved deliberately, taking up space, her strides long and heavy. She wore flat, sensible shoes hidden beneath the long hem of her trousers. Her ankle was still tender from the incident at the warehouse, but she masked the slight limp with a swaggering, arrogant gait. The crowd parted, whispers of “That’s him” and “That’s the Oracle CEO” rippling through the room.
From the shadows near the bar, Alistair Thorne watched. He wore a simple black domino mask, looking like a dark knight. His eyes never left Skye. He was her safety net. If the masks slipped, if Liam got too close, Alistair would intervene.
Liam saw Morgan descending. He straightened his spine, forcing himself to stand without the cane for a moment. He walked to the bottom of the stairs, meeting the man as he stepped onto the floor.
“Mr. Morgan,” Liam said, extending his hand. “Liam Kensington. Bold of you to show your face p>
Skye looked at the hand. She took it. Her grip was firm, practiced. Her hand felt smaller than Liam expected, but the palm was rough—calloused from hours of piano and dance practice, disguised as the hands of a man who worked.
Skye tapped the small device hidden under her collar.
“Mr. Kensington,” she said. The voice modulator turned her words into a smooth, deep baritone with a slight electronic edge. “I didn’t think you’d come. Usually, prey avoid the predator’s den p>