Chapter 913
“She’s making a move for the company,” Julian realized. “While the body is still warm.”
“She can’t,” Alistair said. “Grandpa’s will hasn’t been read. The shares are frozen.”
“Unless she has a partner,” Skye said, eyes drifting back to the photo of the mystery man. “Someone with enough capital to force a leveraged buyout.”
Julian typed furiously on his laptop. “I’m tracking Beatrice’s offshore accounts. There was a massive transfer yesterday — five hundred million dollars, wired to a shell company called New Graves Holdings.”
𝗪𝗲 𝘶𝗽𝘥𝘢𝗍𝘦 𝘦vеr𝘆 𝘸𝘦𝗲k on 𝘨𝘢l𝗻𝗈𝗏𝖾𝘭𝘀.𝘤𝗼m
“Graves,” Alistair repeated. He looked at Skye, and she watched the realization hit him. “If someone from Lucian’s family has surfaced — someone we don’t know about…”
“Then tonight isn’t a party,” Skye said, reaching into her purse and checking the magazine of her compact pistol. “It’s a coup.”
Alistair buttoned his jacket. The grief was gone, replaced by the cold, tactical efficiency of a soldier going to war. “Julian, stay here. Keep working on breaking Ethan’s conditioning. Skye and I are going to crash a party.”
“I’m coming with you,” Julian argued.
“No,” Skye said. “You’re the only one who can save your brother. We’ll handle Beatrice.”
As they walked out to the car, a text arrived on Skye’s burner phone. It was from Liam.
Watch your back. The man in the photo isn’t Lucian. It’s Silas. His cousin. And he didn’t come alone.
Skye held the screen out for Alistair to read.
“Silas Graves,” Alistair said, testing the name. “The black sheep. The one they exiled to Europe.”
“Looks like the sheep came back,” Skye said, climbing into the passenger seat. “And he brought wolves with him.”
The Onyx Lounge sat atop the tallest skyscraper in Sea City, a glass jewel box floating in the clouds. Tonight it was bathed in somber purples and blacks — a mockery of mourning. The elevator doors slid open, and the noise hit Skye and Alistair like a wall: not the hushed whispers of a wake, but the thumping bass of house music and the bright clinking of champagne flutes.
Beatrice stood on a raised platform at the center of the room, holding a microphone. She looked radiant, feeding off the attention like a vampire.
“Tonight, we mourn a legend,” she purred into the mic. “But business, like life, must go on. To ensure stability, the board has appointed me interim—”
Alistair stepped out of the elevator. His presence alone sucked the air from the room. He didn’t need a microphone.
“Since when does the mistress dictate the succession?”
The music cut out. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Beatrice’s smile didn’t falter. “Alistair. So glad you could make it. You look… tired.”
“And you look like you’re celebrating,” Skye said, stepping up beside him. She wore a black dress that was sleek, armored, and dangerous.
“We are celebrating the future,” Beatrice said, gesturing to the screen behind her. It displayed a complex organizational chart. “Thorne Group is entering a strategic partnership.”
A man stepped out from the shadows behind her.