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.

---

No.7

The Gala moved into the ballroom for the entertainment portion. The lights dimmed, casting a soft, amber glow over the guests.

Liam cornered Skye near the bar. He looked exhausted. Seraphina had gone to the bathroom to fix her makeup, leaving him unguarded.

You made Seraphina look like a fool, Liam accused, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He was shaken by the French incident.

She did it herself, Skye replied, sipping water. "I just provided the translation."

And that land purchase, Liam pressed, changing the subject to something he felt he could control. "Investors are laughing at me, Skye. They think I can't control my wife."

They won't be laughing in a month, Skye said enigmatically.

Suddenly, the host tapped the microphone.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a slight problem. Our scheduled pianist, the renowned Mr. Black, has taken ill.

Upon the balcony, Felix Carter nudged Alistair. "Ill? I thought we just paid him to take a long vacation."

Alistair smirked. "Same thing."

Is there anyone in the audience who could favor us with a performance? the host asked, looking desperate. "Just to fill the silence while we set up the auction?"

Seraphina returned, her eyes red-rimmed but her makeup restored. She grabbed Liam's arm.

Skye took lessons as a kid, she whispered loudly. "Make her do it. She hasn't played in years. She'll embarrass herself, and then people will forget about the vase."

It was a petty, vicious trap. Seraphina wanted to see Skye fail.

Liam, desperate to regain some control over the narrative, nodded. He raised his hand.

My wife plays! Liam announced.

The spotlights swung to Skye.

Skye froze. She hadn't touched a piano in this life for five years. But in her past life... in the dark years before her death, the piano was her only friend. She had played for hours, pouring her grief into the keys.

She looked at Seraphina's smug face. She looked at Liam's expectant, cruel eyes.

She handed her glass to a waiter.

Fine, she said.

She walked up the stairs to the stage. The Steinway grand piano sat there like a black beast. She sat down on the bench. She adjusted the height.

She closed her eyes. She didn't want to play something pretty. She didn't want to play Mozart or Chopin. She wanted violence.

She raised her hands.

She struck the first chords of Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C-sharp Minor.

BUM. BUM. BUM.

The heavy, dark notes thundered through the room. It was not a song; it was a war cry. It was the sound of doom approaching.

Liam's jaw dropped. He expected "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." He got the apocalypse.

Skye's fingers flew across the keys. Her body swayed with the music, intense and passionate. She poured every ounce of her anger, her betrayal, her death, and her rebirth into the instrument. The music was chaotic, difficult, and overwhelmingly powerful.

The audience was mesmerized. They had never seen a socialite play with such raw, unbridled emotion.

Upon the balcony, Alistair Thorne leaned over the railing. He watched her hands. He watched the way her hair fell over her face. His heart beat in time with the frantic rhythm of the prelude.

God, he whispered. "She is magnificent."

The song ended with a crashing final chord that seemed to shake the chandeliers.

Skye held the final note, her chest heaving.

Silence. For three long seconds, there was absolute silence.

Then, thunderous applause. People stood up. Mr. Stephen was shouting "Bravo!"

Skye stood and bowed. She didn't look at the audience. She looked up at the balcony. She looked straight at the shadows where she knew Alistair was.

She walked off the stage, adrenaline pumping through her veins like fire.

She didn't go back to Liam. She turned toward the service corridor, needing air.

As she turned the corner near the kitchens, a hand grabbed her arm. She spun around, ready to fight.

It was Alistair.

He pulled her into the shadows. His eyes were dark, dilated.

You played that for me, he said. It wasn't a question.

I played it for myself, Skye corrected, breathless.

He didn't hand her a bulky folder this time. Instead, he reached out and deftly slipped a small, heavy metal card into her clutch. "The transfer confirmation," he murmured. "It's done."

Skye looked at him. Her hands brushed his. His skin was hot.

Pleasure doing business, she said.

Alistair leaned in, trapping her against the wall. "Why that song? It's heavy. It's dark."

Because I'm declaring war, Skye whispered. She looked up at him, trusting him with a secret she hadn't told a soul.

The West Harbor, she murmured. "It's being rezoned as the 'Future Tech Park' next week. The government announcement is sealed, but it's happening."

Alistair went still. He stared at her. She had just handed him a billion-dollar secret. She had trusted him.

A slow smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a wolf who had found his mate.

You really are an Oracle, he whispered.

As she pulled away, his hand lingered on her clutch for a fraction of a second too long. He had slipped something else in there besides the bank card—a micro-tracker, no larger than a button. Just in case.

---