Chapter 117
Chapter 117:
“I’m fine,” Skye said, leaning back and closing her eyes for a second. “Thank you for the footage p>
“I dislike liars,” Julian said simply. “And I dislike people who try to frame my brother p>
Skye opened her eyes. She noticed the side pocket of the door beside Julian. An orange prescription bottle stuck out, the label partially visible.
Sertraline. High dosage.
She looked away quickly, but Julian had caught the glance. He didn’t hide the bottle. He didn’t explain. He just held her gaze, a silent challenge in his dark eyes.
I see you seeing me.
“You can drop me at the penthouse,” Skye said, breaking the tension.
When she stepped out at The Spire, her phone buzzed. A text from Alistair.
I’ll be your shadow tomorrow. The mask fits you.
Skye smiled. She felt safe. For the first time that night, the adrenaline faded, leaving bone-deep exhaustion.
Back at the hotel, Liam was still drinking.
Secretary Lee approached cautiously, holding a black envelope.
“Sir,” Lee whispered. “This just arrived for you. The courier said it was urgent p>
Liam took the envelope. It was heavy, expensive paper. It smelled faintly of smoky, woody cologne—sandalwood and tobacco. He tore it open.
Inside was a single card, embossed in gold.
The Oracle Masquerade Ball.
Tomorrow Night. Midnight.
Mr. Morgan requests the pleasure of your company.
Liam stared at the card. The scent rose, taunting him. Mr. Morgan. The man who stole his contracts. The man who had laughed at him on the phone.
He crumpled the envelope in his fist.
𝗥𝘦c𝗼𝗺𝘮𝗲ո𝖽 𝘣𝗲.𝖼оm to уо𝗎𝗋 𝖿𝘳𝘪en𝖽ѕ
“Find out where this is,” Liam ordered, his words slightly slurred. “I’m going to find this bastard. And I’m going to unmask him p>
Skye walked into her walk-in closet at the penthouse. She pushed aside the silk dresses and power suits. At the very back, inside a garment bag, hung a custom-made men’s suit. Midnight blue, cut to hide the curve of her hips and broaden her shoulders.
She pulled it out.
She went to the mirror and practiced the walk. Shoulders forward. Hips rigid. Long, heavy strides.
She winced as she thought about the bindings she would have to wear tomorrow. They restricted her breathing, crushing her ribs. But pain was a small price to pay for anonymity.
She picked up a small box from the vanity. Inside was a theatrical prosthetic—an Adam’s apple.
She held it to her throat.
“Game on, Liam,” she whispered to her reflection.
Back at the precinct, Liam’s lawyer was arguing with the desk sergeant. Liam had called him five minutes earlier.
“Bail her out,” Liam had said over the phone. “Get her out of there p>