Chapter 384
Chapter 384:
Skye gripped the duvet cover.
“I must have seen a trailer p>
“There’s no trailer with that scene,” Liam said. He looked at her like she was a stranger—like she was an alien puzzle he couldn’t solve. “You knew about the North Terminal protocol. You knew about the land value in West Harbor. You knew about Seraphina’s fake pregnancy before the doctors did p>
He leaned closer. “Who are you, Skye? Really p>
Skye opened her mouth. She had no defense. The truth—I died and came back to destroy you—was impossible to say.
Suddenly, a loud boom echoed outside.
The glass doors rattled.
A massive firework exploded over the ocean, painting the night sky in brilliant streaks of gold and purple. Then another. And another.
The distraction broke Liam’s stare. He looked out the window.
Skye exhaled, her breath shuddering out of her lungs. Saved by pyrotechnics.
But as she looked at the sky, she saw the pattern. The fireworks weren’t random. They were exploding in groups of three.
Three shots. Like the gun range.
Skye smiled.
Alistair was here.
The fireworks continued to bloom—a relentless assault of color against the darkness. They illuminated the beach, the villa, and the stunned faces of the production crew who hadn’t authorized this display.
Liam turned back to Skye. The suspicion in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a sheepish, almost boyish look.
“I ordered them,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Before we left the city. I set a timer. For you p>
Skye stared at him. The absurdity of it. He thought he was being romantic.
“We are divorced, Liam,” she said flatly. “And I’m tired p>
“I wanted to make you smile,” he said helplessly. “You haven’t smiled for real in five years p>
𝖱𝖾𝘀𝘱e𝖼𝘵 𝘵hе о𝗋ig𝗶ո𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗼𝘯𝘁еn𝗍 f𝗋om 𝖻𝘦𝘭𝘯о𝘷еl𝘀.𝗰𝘰𝗺
Skye felt a pang—not of love, but of pity. He was trying to water a dead plant.
“You can’t buy a smile, Liam,” she said. She stood and walked to the balcony, unlocking the glass door. “Especially not with company money p>
She stepped out into the humid night air. The sulfur smell of fireworks mixed with salt spray.
Half a mile out, bobbing in the dark swells of the ocean, was a rusted fishing trawler.
It looked like a piece of junk, the kind of boat that smuggled contraband or caught sardines. But inside the wheelhouse, the equipment was military-grade.
Alistair Thorne stood on the deck. He wore a thick fisherman’s sweater and a beanie pulled low. He held night-vision binoculars to his eyes.
Felix was leaning over the railing, retching violently into the sea.
“Why…” Felix gasped, wiping his mouth. “Why couldn’t we take the yacht? Or the jet p>
“Camouflage,” Alistair muttered, not lowering the binoculars. “A yacht draws attention. A fishing boat is invisible p>
He adjusted the focus. The green-tinted images sharpened. He saw the balcony of the Honeymoon Suite. He saw Skye leaning against the railing.
Then he saw Liam step out behind her.
Alistair gripped the wooden railing. The wood groaned under his pressure, splintering.
“Get me closer,” Alistair commanded the captain, a local man he’d paid triple the usual rate.
“Too shallow, boss,” the captain grunted. “Reef p>
“Closer,” Alistair snarled.