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."

No.5

The week leading up to the International Trade Gala was a blur of activity. Skye moved through Kensington Manor like a ghost, avoiding Liam, who was sleeping in the guest wing. He hadn't signed the divorce papers yet. He thought she was bluffing.

On the afternoon of the Gala, Skye was in the library, reviewing the architectural plans for the wasteland. She had already hired a discreet team of surveyors.

The door banged open. Secretary Lee walked in.

Lee was Liam's personal assistant, a man who had sneered at Skye for five years. He carried a garment bag with the tip of his fingers, as if it were infected.

Mr. Kensington sent this, Lee announced, not bothering with a greeting. "He expects you to be ready at 7. And he said no red."

Lee dropped the bag onto the velvet sofa. It slid off and hit the floor.

He didn't move to pick it up.

Skye looked at the bag, then at Lee. "Pick it up."

Lee scoffed. He adjusted his glasses. "I'm a devastatingly busy man, Mrs. Kensington. I don't do housekeeping. Call a maid."

Skye stood up slowly. She placed her hands on the desk.

You are Liam's secretary, she said. "Paid by the Kensington Family Trust."

So?

So, I control 40% of that trust, Skye said.

Lee rolled his eyes. "Just put the dress on. It's grey. Seraphina picked it out. She thought it suited your... maturity."

Grey. A color for old women. A color for shadows. Seraphina was trying to make her disappear again.

Skye picked up her phone. She dialed a number.

Who are you calling? Liam? Lee mocked. "He won't take your call."

Security, Skye said into the phone, her voice dripping with cold authority. "This is Skye Sterling-Kensington. Revoke Secretary Lee's clearance codes immediately. I've flagged his expense accounts for a forensic audit regarding the unauthorized 'consulting fees' to the Miller accounts. Unless he wants a fraud investigation, I suggest he escort himself out. He has five minutes."

She hung up.

Lee froze. His face went pale, the blood draining from his cheeks. He knew about the "consulting fees"—money he had been funneling to Seraphina on Liam's orders, but buried in the books. How did she know? If she audited him, he would go to prison.

You... you wouldn't, Lee stammered.

Try me, Skye said, returning to her paperwork. "Get out."

Lee fled.

Skye walked over to the garment bag. She unzipped it. The dress was hideous—a shapeless, frumpy grey sack with high lace collars. It looked like something a Victorian widow would wear to a funeral.

Burn it, she told Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper who had entered upon hearing the commotion.

And bring me the Gold Collection from the vault.

7:00 PM.

Liam stood in the foyer, checking his Rolex. He was pacing. Seraphina had texted him ten times asking if Skye was wearing the grey dress.

Where is she? And where the hell is Lee? He isn't answering his phone, Liam grumbled.

The sound of heels clicking on the marble staircase echoed through the hall. Click. Click. Click.

Liam looked up. His breath caught in his throat.

Skye was descending the stairs. She was not wearing grey.

She was wearing gold.

The gown was made of a liquid metallic fabric that shimmered with every movement. It was strapless, hugging her breasts and cinching her waist before cascading down in a pool of molten light. It was a dress that screamed wealth. It screamed power. It screamed, Look at me.

Her hair was down in loose, glamorous waves. She wore vintage diamond earrings that caught the light of the chandelier.

Liam was speechless. He had forgotten she could look like this. He had forgotten she was a Sterling.

You're late, he managed to say, his voice hoarse. He tried to summon his usual annoyance, but it fell flat.

Skye reached the bottom of the stairs. She didn't stop for him. She walked past him toward the door, leaving a trail of jasmine scent in her wake.

Perfection takes time, she said.

Where is Lee? Liam asked, following her like a puppy. "He was supposed to drive us."

Skye paused at the door. The chauffeur was holding it open.

Fired, she said simply. "He had bad taste."

She got into the car.

Liam stood on the driveway, stunned. She fired his secretary? Since when did she have the spine to fire anyone?

He got into the car beside her. The ride was silent. But for the first time in years, Liam wasn't looking at his phone. He was looking at her.

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No.6

The International Trade Gala was held at the City Museum, an avenue filled with priceless artifacts and equally priceless egos.

When Skye and Liam entered, the cameras flashed, but the dynamic had shifted. Liam usually led, with Skye trailing behind. Tonight, Skye walked a half-step ahead, the gold dress acting as a beacon.

They separated immediately. Liam went to network with potential investors for his stalled projects. Skye went to the bar.

She ordered a sparkling water. She needed a clear head.

Ten minutes later, the side door opened. Seraphina Miller slipped in. She wasn't invited, but she was wearing a "Volunteer Staff" badge. It was a clever move—it made her look humble and hardworking.

She spotted Liam across the room and started moving toward him, a look of practiced distress on her face.

Between Seraphina and Liam stood a display of Ming Dynasty vases. An elderly gardener was carefully watering a large fern placed dangerously close to the pedestals.

Seraphina, eyes fixed on Liam, didn't look where she was going. She walked briskly, her hip checking the gardener.

The old man stumbled. His elbow hit the pedestal.

CRASH.

The sound was deafening. The blue and white porcelain shattered into a million jagged pieces on the marble floor.

The string quartet stopped playing. The chatter died instantly.

Seraphina shrieked. She jumped back, pointing a finger at the gardener.

Watch where you're going, you old fool! she screamed. Her voice was shrill, cutting through the silence.

The gardener, a man in his sixties, was trembling. "I... I'm so sorry, Miss. You bumped into me..."

I did not! Seraphina yelled, her face red. "You attacked me! Look at this mess! That vase is worth millions! You've ruined everything!"

She was making a scene. She was trying to deflect blame, hoping her "victim" narrative would save her.

Liam rushed over, looking mortified. "Seraphina? What happened?"

He pushed me! Seraphina sobbed, clinging to Liam. "He broke the vase!"

Guests were whispering. "Who is that screaming woman?" "Isn't that the Kensington girl?"

Skye set her glass down. She walked into the center of the circle.

Lower your voice, Miss Miller, Skye said. Her tone was icy, commanding.

He tried to hurt me! Seraphina lied, doubling down.

Skye ignored her. She knelt down gracefully, the gold dress pooling around her. She picked up a large shard of the pottery. She ran her thumb over the broken edge. The clay was white, but too porous. The glaze was too shiny.

She stood up.

It's a replica, Skye announced.

The crowd murmured.

A 19th-century reproduction, Skye clarified, her voice projecting effortlessly. "Does anyone really think the museum would leave a genuine Ming vase next to the coat check during a cocktail party? The brush strokes on the dragon are too heavy for the Ming era. And the clay composition is modern kaolin."

The Museum Curator, a frantic little man with glasses, rushed forward. "Mrs. Kensington is correct! Absolutely correct! The real Ming vase is in the vault. We display replicas for safety during large events."

A collective sigh of relief went through the room. Then, a ripple of laughter.

Seraphina had been screaming over a fake. It made her look uneducated, hysterical, and distinctly out of place.

Oh, Seraphina squeaked. "I... I didn't know."

Clearly, Skye said. She looked at the gardener. "Are you alright?"

The gardener nodded, teary-eyed.

Suddenly, a tall man with silver hair approached. It was Mr. Stephen, a French tycoon and the guest of honor. He looked furious at the treatment of the staff.

C'est inacceptable! Mr. Stephen barked in rapid French. "Cette femme est hystérique. Elle devrait être renvoyée." (This is unacceptable! This woman is hysterical. She should be removed.)

Liam looked panicked. He didn't speak French. He looked at his translator, but the translator was stuck in the crowd.

I... uh... yes, good, Liam stammered, smiling nervously.

Mr. Stephen narrowed his eyes, insulted by Liam's ignorance.

Skye stepped forward. She looked Mr. Stephen in the eye.

Monsieur Stephen, veuillez pardonner cette interruption, Skye said. Her French was flawless, her accent perfectly Parisian. "C'était un accident malheureux causé par la maladresse de l'invitée. Le jardinier n'est pas en faute." (Mr. Stephen, please forgive the interruption. It was an unfortunate accident caused by the guest's clumsiness. The gardener is not at fault.)

Mr. Stephen's expression softened instantly. He looked at Skye with delight.

Vous parlez français, Madame?

J'ai vécu à Paris pendant un an, Skye lied smoothly. "Votre collection d'art est magnifique." (I lived in Paris for a year. Your art collection is magnificent.)

Mr. Stephen took Skye's hand and kissed it. He ignored Liam completely. He ignored Seraphina, looking at her as if she were a rude child.

Liam stared at his wife. His mouth was slightly open.

Since when do you speak French? he whispered, grabbing her arm as Mr. Stephen walked away.

Skye pulled her arm free. She dusted off the spot where he had touched her.

Since I stopped waiting for you to come home for dinner, darling, she said. "A woman needs hobbies to fill the empty hours."

She walked away, leaving him standing next to a sobbing Seraphina and a pile of broken pottery.

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