Chapter 1087
Marcus chuckled. “Indeed. I wanted to propose a partnership. Oracle has the data. I have the political will. Together, we could clean up this city.”
“Clean it up the way you cleaned up Secretary Lee?” Skye asked.
The silence that followed was sudden and absolute.
Marcus set his glass down. The smile disappeared.
“Lee was a loose end,” he said evenly. “Inefficient.”
“And Lucian?” Skye pressed. “Was he inefficient?”
“Lucian was an obstacle,” Marcus said. “He refused to share the keys. I admire loyalty, Skye — but blind loyalty is just stupidity.”
“So you admit it,” Alistair said. “You ordered the hit.”
“I order many things,” Marcus said, leaning forward. “I am offering you a choice. Join me. Integrate Oracle into my administration’s infrastructure. Or…”
“Or what?” Skye challenged.
“Or the next accident won’t be a rescue mission,” Marcus said softly. “It will be a funeral.”
He held her gaze — cold, flat eyes that gave nothing away. “Your father was a stubborn man, Skye. He refused to see the future. That’s why his empire crumbled. I didn’t pull the trigger on him, but I certainly didn’t stop it. Don’t make his mistake.”
Skye’s blood ran cold. He was rewriting history, claiming ownership over even her father’s fall.
She stood. Her hands were trembling — not from fear, but from rage.
“The answer is no,” she said. “And Marcus? I’m going to bury you. Not with a bullet. With the truth. I have the chip. I have the data.”
Marcus didn’t flinch. “Data is just noise until someone listens. And I own the speakers.”
“Try it,” Alistair said, rising beside her. “But remember — if you come for the Queen, you’d better not miss.”
They turned and walked out.
As they stepped into the cool night air, Alistair took Skye’s hand.
“He’s going to come for us with everything he has,” he said.
“Good,” Skye said, glancing back at the mansion. “I’m ready.”
They got into the car. This was about blood now.
The heavy door of the armored sedan slammed shut, sealing them inside a vacuum of silence and filtered air. The moment the latch clicked, the steel in Skye’s spine seemed to liquefy. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the confrontation with Marcus Cain evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in her bones.
Her head fell back against the leather headrest, the world tilting alarmingly. The blood she had given to Lucian — nearly a pint of O-negative — was exacting its toll now that the threat was no longer staring her in the face. Her vision grayed at the edges, a persistent hum rising in her ears like static.
“Breathe,” Alistair said. He didn’t look at her, but his hand found hers in the darkness between the seats, his thumb pressing firmly into her pulse point, grounding her.
“I’m fine,” Skye lied, her voice coming out thin and reedy.
“You’re gray,” he countered, his tone devoid of judgment but heavy with concern. “And your heart rate is spiking. That wasn’t just a meeting, Skye. That was a declaration of war — and you’re running on empty.”