No.2

The entrance to the Grand Hotel was a chaotic sea of flashing lights. The annual Charity Gala was the biggest event in Sea City's social calendar, a place where fortunes were flaunted and reputations were either made or destroyed.

A sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. The crowd of paparazzi surged forward, shouting names.

Liam! Liam, over here!

Mr. Kensington, is the merger happening?

The door opened, and Liam Kensington stepped out. He was undeniably handsome, with the kind of sharp jawline and brooding eyes that made women forgive him for almost anything. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking annoyed by the attention, yet feeding off it.

He didn't wait for the valet. He reached back into the car and offered his hand.

A delicate, pale hand took it. Seraphina Miller emerged.

She was wearing white. Of course, she was. It was a chiffon gown, floaty and innocent, almost identical in style to the one Skye had just ripped apart at home. Seraphina looked up at Liam with wide, doe-like eyes, playing the role of the timid protégé perfectly.

You look like an angel, Miss Miller! a photographer shouted.

Seraphina blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She clung to Liam's arm, her knuckles white. "I'm so nervous, Liam," she whispered, loud enough for the microphones to catch.

You're fine, Liam said, patting her hand. "You belong here."

He scanned the entrance, frowning. Skye wasn't there yet. Good. Maybe she had decided to stay home. He preferred her invisible.

Another car pulled up behind them. It wasn't a modern luxury car. It was a vintage 1950s Bentley, dark green and imposing. It belonged to the Sterling family estate, a car that hadn't been seen in public since Skye's father passed away.

The heavy doors swung open.

A red stiletto hit the red carpet.

The crowd went silent. The shutter clicks stopped for a split second, as if the camera lenses themselves were holding their breath.

Skye Sterling stepped out.

The red dress flowed around her like liquid fire. It was scandalous. It was magnificent. The back was entirely open, displaying the sharp, elegant line of her spine. Her hair was swept up in a severe, chic chignon, exposing the long column of her neck. Her lips were a slash of crimson.

She didn't look down. She didn't smile nervously. She looked straight ahead, her chin tilted up, radiating a cold, imperious power that sucked the air out of the vicinity.

Who... who is that? a reporter whispered.

That's... Mrs. Kensington? another answered, sounding unsure.

The cameras erupted. The flashes were blinding, a strobe light storm centered entirely on her. They had expected the mousey wife; they got a lioness.

Liam turned around at the sudden shift in noise. His eyes widened. His jaw actually went slack. He stared at her, unable to reconcile this vision with the woman who usually wore beige cardigans and made him tea.

Seraphina's smile faltered. She looked at her own white dress, then at Skye's crimson masterpiece. She looked like a flower girl standing next to a queen. Her grip on Liam's arm tightened painfully.

Skye began to walk. She moved with a predator's grace, each step deliberate. She ignored the reporters shouting questions about her "new look." She walked straight up to Liam and Seraphina, stopping only when she was close enough to smell Seraphina's cloyingly sweet perfume.

You're late, Liam snapped, his voice tight. He recovered from his shock quickly, replacing it with anger. "And what the hell are you wearing? You look... vulgar."

Skye looked him up and down. Her gaze was dismissive, like she was inspecting a stain on a tablecloth.

Hello, husband, she drawled. She turned her eyes to Seraphina. "And... guest."

Seraphina's eyes welled up with instant tears. "Mrs. Kensington, I... I just wanted to support the charity. I didn't mean to intrude."

I see you're wearing white, Skye observed, her voice flat. "Trying to salvage a reputation that doesn't exist?"

The reporters nearby gasped. They leaned in, hungry for the drama.

Skye! Liam hissed, stepping between them. "Apologize. Now. You are making a scene."

I haven't even started making a scene, Liam, Skye said softly. She leaned in closer to him, her red lips curling into a smirk. "I didn't want to match with your charity case. It confuses the donors."

She's a scholarship student of the Kensington Foundation! Liam argued, his face flushing.

Then maybe she should study more and socialize less, Skye countered. She sidestepped him smoothly. "Move. I'm here to spend money, not waste time on cheap melodrama."

She brushed past them, the silk of her dress whispering against Liam's suit. She left him standing there, fuming, impotent in his rage.

Upon the second floor, in the shadowed VIP booth overlooking the grand hall, a man sat in a leather armchair. He held a glass of amber whiskey, the ice clinking softly.

Damn, a young man next to him whistled. Felix Carter leaned over the railing. "Is that the Sterling girl? The one everyone says is a doormat?"

The man in the chair didn't answer immediately. Alistair Thorne leaned forward, the shadows retreating from his sharp features. He had eyes the color of a stormy sea—grey, turbulent, and intelligent. He was the outcast of the Thorne family, the dangerous "black sheep" who controlled the city's underground while his cousins played in boardrooms.

He watched the woman in red cut through the crowd like a knife. He saw the way she held her shoulders—tense, but strong. He saw the rage vibrating off her.

She's not a doormat, Alistair murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in his chest. "She's a bomb waiting to detonate."

Skye paused at the entrance to the ballroom. She felt a gaze on her. A physical weight on the back of her neck. She looked up, scanning the balcony.

Her eyes locked with Alistair's.

Distance separated them, but the connection was instant and electric. He raised his glass to her in a mock salute.

Skye didn't smile. She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than was polite, acknowledging him. I see you watching, her eyes said.

She turned away and walked into the gala. Her heart was racing, slamming against her ribs. Alistair Thorne. In her past life, he was a myth, a shadow who eventually took over the city after the Kensingtons fell. She had never spoken to him.

But in this life... in this life, she would need a monster to kill a monster.

---

No.3

The Grand Ballroom was stifling. The scent of lilies and expensive cologne hung heavy in the air. Skye sat alone at Table 8. The other seats were empty; the socialites who were assigned to sit with her had mysteriously drifted to other tables, likely not wanting to be caught in the crossfire between her and Liam.

Liam and Seraphina were at Table 1, the prime spot, surrounded by sycophants laughing too hard at Liam's jokes. Every few minutes, Liam would whisper something to Seraphina, and she would giggle, touching his arm. It was a performance. A clumsy one.

Skye sipped her champagne. It was warm.

Ladies and gentlemen, the auctioneer boomed from the stage. "We now move to Lot 9. The West Harbor Industrial Zone."

A murmur of laughter rippled through the room.

The screen behind the stage lit up, displaying a drone shot of a desolate wasteland. Rusted shipping containers, patches of oil-slicked dirt, and a general aura of decay. It was the armpit of Sea City.

A unique investment opportunity, the auctioneer tried to sell it, though even he sounded skeptical. "Starting bid: 50 million dollars."

Silence. Dead silence.

Someone at a nearby table snorted. "I wouldn't buy that for a dollar. It's a toxic waste dump."

Skye set the glass down. Her fingers brushed the plastic paddle. Number 88.

In her past life, this land sat unsold for another six months. Then, the government announced the "Future Tech Park" initiative. The land values skyrocketed overnight, increasing by two thousand percent. The Sterling family missed out. The Kensingtons missed out. A foreign investor bought it and made billions.

Not this time.

Skye raised her paddle.

100 million, she said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the murmurs.

The room gasped. Heads snapped toward Table 8.

Liam turned around in his chair, his face twisting in disbelief. He stood up and marched over to her table, ignoring the stares.

Put it down, he hissed, leaning over her. "Are you drunk? That land is worthless. You're embarrassing the family."

Skye didn't look at him. She looked at the auctioneer.

100 million to the lady in red, the auctioneer stammered, shocked.

It's my trust fund, Liam, Skye said calmly. "I can burn it if I want to."

You are insane, Liam spat. "I won't let you ruin our finances with this... garbage."

Our finances? Skye raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said my money was 'cute' pocket change."

From the VIP booth above, Felix Carter was laughing so hard he was choking on his drink. "Boss, she's actually bidding on the dump. She's crazy."

Alistair Thorne was not laughing. He was staring at Skye with narrowed eyes. He tapped his finger against his chin. He had heard whispers—rumors from his contacts in the planning commission—that the zoning laws might change. But it was deep intel. How did a socialite know?

Or was she just reckless?

Bid, Alistair said.

Felix stopped laughing. "What?"

Bid against her.

But boss, it's trash!

Do it.

Felix sighed and spoke into the microphone connected to the floor. "300 million."

The announcement boomed over the speakers. "The VIP booth bids 300 million!"

The room erupted into chaos. Alistair Thorne was bidding? If Thorne was interested, maybe it wasn't trash.

Skye's heart skipped a beat. She looked up at the booth. The dark glass hid him, but she knew he was there. Why was he interfering? This was not in the script.

She couldn't lose this. This land was her exit strategy. It was her war chest.

She raised her paddle again. Her hand was steady, but her palms were sweating.

500 million, Skye declared.

Liam looked like he was going to have a stroke. "Skye! Stop! That is half of your inheritance!"

Going once... the auctioneer yelled, sweating.

Skye stared at the black glass of the VIP booth. She willed him to stop. Please. Don't fight me on this.

Alistair watched her. He saw the desperation hidden behind her stoic mask. He saw the way her knuckles were white around the paddle. She wanted this. She needed this.

He smiled. "Let her have it."

Sold! the gavel banged. "To Mrs. Kensington for 500 million dollars!"

The room collapsed into noise. People were shaking their heads, whispering about the "mad Kensington wife."

Liam slammed his hand on her table, rattling the silverware. "You have ruined us. When the board hears about this..."

Skye stood up. She was the same height as him in her heels.

If you're so worried about finances, Liam, she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear, "maybe we should separate our assets."

She leaned in closer, smelling the faint trace of Seraphina's perfume on his lapel.

I want a divorce.

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than the 500 million dollars.

Liam froze. He blinked, his mouth opening and closing. He had threatened her with divorce a thousand times. She had always begged him to stay.

You... what?

You heard me, Skye said. She picked up her clutch. "Enjoy the rest of the night with your charity case. I have paperwork to do."

She turned and walked away, leaving the gala, leaving the husband, leaving the life she had died in.

---

No.4

The night air outside the hotel was cool, but Skye was burning up.

She sat in the back of the Sterling Bentley, her phone glowing in the dark. She had won the bid. But she had a problem. A 500-million-dollar problem.

She checked her bank accounts. Her personal trust fund had 420 million liquid. She was short 80 million. The payment was due in 48 hours.

Usually, she could move money from the joint Kensington accounts to cover the gap, but as she tried to access the app, a red notification popped up.

ACCESS DENIED. ACCOUNT FROZEN BY L. KENSINGTON.

Bastard, Skye cursed softly. He moved fast. He was trying to strangle her financially to force her to apologize and cancel the bid.

She couldn't go to traditional banks. They would call Liam for approval as her "spouse." She needed private equity. She needed a loan shark. She needed the devil.

Driver, Skye said. "Take me to The Obsidian Club."

The driver, an old family retainer named Alfred, hesitated. "Miss Skye... that place... it's not for people like you."

Just drive, Alfred.

The Obsidian Club was a fortress of black stone in the downtown district. It was where the city's real deals were made—the illegal ones, the dangerous ones. It was Alistair Thorne's territory.

The car stopped. Skye stepped out. The bouncer, a man the size of a vending machine, crossed his arms.

Members only, Mrs. Kensington. Go back to your tea party, he sneered. He recognized her from the tabloids.

Skye didn't flinch. She pulled a pen from her clutch and wrote on a cocktail napkin she had taken from the gala.

North Sea Port. Container 404. It's not textiles.

She folded the napkin and handed it to the bouncer. "Give this to Mr. Thorne. Tell him... a friend from the other side sent it."

The bouncer looked at the napkin, then at her. The confidence in her eyes unnerved him. He grunted and went inside.

Five minutes later, the doors opened. Felix Carter stood there, looking amused.

The boss is curious, Felix said. "Follow me."

Skye followed him through the club. The bass from the music thumped in her chest. The air smelled of expensive smoke and danger. They took a private elevator to the top floor.

The office was silent. Soundproofed. It was dark, lit only by the city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Alistair Thorne sat behind a massive mahogany desk. He wasn't wearing a suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He held the napkin in his hand.

Container 404, Alistair said, his voice deep and smooth. "My rival's shipment. Contraband weapons hidden in silk. If customs finds this, he goes to jail for twenty years."

He looked up, his grey eyes piercing her. "How does a socialite know about underground smuggling routes?"

Skye sat in the chair opposite him, crossing her legs. She didn't wait to be invited.

I have eyes, she lied. In her past life, this scandal broke five years later. It was big news. "I need 80 million. Tonight."

Alistair laughed. It was a dark, rumbling sound that made Skye's toes curl.

You want me to fund the land I bid on? The land you stole from me?

I didn't steal it. I outbid you, Skye corrected. "And I'll pay you back double in three months."

Alistair stood up. He walked around the desk slowly. He moved like a panther stalking a deer. He stopped right in front of her, placing his hands on the armrests of her chair, trapping her.

He leaned down. His face was inches from hers. She could smell him—sandalwood, tobacco, and raw masculinity.

I don't need money, Mrs. Kensington, he whispered. His breath ghosted over her lips. "I have more money than God. I need... amusement."

Skye held her breath. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought he must hear it. This man was dangerous. He could kill her and no one would find the body.

What do you want? she asked, her voice steady despite the fear.

Alistair studied her face. He saw the fire in her eyes. She wasn't flinching.

Liam is hosting the International Trade Gala next week, Alistair said. "He invited the entire city. Except me."

You want an invitation?

No, Alistair smirked. "I want you to burn it down. Metaphorically."

He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers rough against her soft skin.

Ensure Seraphina Miller is humiliated. Thoroughly. Publicly. Make Liam regret the day he was born.

Skye blinked. She smiled, and this time, it was genuine. It was a sharp, wicked thing.

That's not a price, Mr. Thorne, she purred. "That's a pleasure."

Alistair straightened up. He walked back to his desk and picked up a secure landline phone. He dialed a number from memory.

This is Thorne, he said, his eyes never leaving Skye. "Authorize a transfer. Eighty million. Account holder: Skye Sterling. Immediate execution."

He hung up the phone.

Don't disappoint me, little Oracle, he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a mix of mockery and intrigue.

Skye's breath hitched, her hand freezing on the armrest. How did he know my dark web handle? The name 'Oracle' was a closely guarded secret, buried under layers of encryption. Yet Alistair Thorne had just casually dropped it like a calling card. He wasn't just dangerous; he was omniscient.

Skye stood up. She walked to the door. Before she left, she turned back, masking her internal shock with a cold smile.

My name is Skye.

Alistair took a sip of his whiskey, watching her leave. "We'll see."