Chapter 487
Chapter 487:
Lucian laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. He pulled her closer, his fingers digging into the silk of her red qipao.
“I never welch, Skye. But I do raise the stakes p>
He gestured with his free hand toward the massive glass doors that led to the outdoor terrace.
“Winning in a dark room with a few drunk gamblers is easy. It’s cheap. You want to prove you’re the Oracle? You want to prove you have the power to command a room p>
He dragged her toward the doors.
“Let’s go to the plaza. There are five thousand tourists out there watching the fountain show. Let’s see if you can make them look at you instead p>
The desert wind hit Skye the moment the doors slid open. It was hot, dry, and carried the scent of ozone and exhaust fumes.
The plaza was a chaotic sea of humanity: tourists with yard-long margarita glasses, street performers painted in gold, couples arguing, and the deafening roar of the fountain jets shooting water two hundred feet into the air.
Lucian pulled her to the edge of the VIP terrace overlooking the crowd. The noise was overwhelming.
“Do it,” Lucian said, releasing her arm and leaning against the stone balustrade. He looked like a Roman emperor watching a gladiator enter the arena. “Captivate them. Make them forget the water show. Make them forget their own names. If you can hold this crowd for ten minutes, I’ll consider your bet valid p>
Skye looked down at the sea of heads. They were ants. No one was looking up. No one cared about a woman in a red dress on a balcony. Without a microphone, she was nothing. Without a stage, she was just background noise.
She looked at Lucian. He was smirking. He knew it was impossible. He wanted to watch her fail. He wanted to watch her scream into the void and be ignored, to prove that her power existed only when he allowed it.
Skye’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.
I am not a victim, she reminded herself. I am the Oracle.
Her eyes scanned the plaza below. She needed a catalyst. She needed a spark.
Her gaze landed on a street performer near the fountain’s edge: a magician with a portable amplifier and a headset mic. He had a small semicircle of an audience.
Skye didn’t think. She acted.
𝖵𝘦ri𝖿𝗶e𝘥 c𝗼𝗻t𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝘰𝘯 b𝘦lnо𝘃е𝗹s.с𝗈𝗺
She kicked off her high heels. The red stilettos clattered on the marble terrace. Barefoot, she vaulted over the low railing of the VIP section and dropped five feet onto the crowded pavement below.
The impact jarred her ankles, but she didn’t stop. She pushed through the crowd, her red dress flashing like a warning beacon.
“Help!” she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at a random, bewildered tourist in an “I Love Vegas” T-shirt. “Mr. Graves! Please p>
It was a lie, a calculated piece of theater. But the name Graves carried weight in this city. And a beautiful woman screaming for help in a torn red dress was primal clickbait for the human brain.
Heads turned. Phones rose. The collective gaze of the mob shifted.
Skye used the confusion to sprint toward the magician. Before the poor man could finish his card trick, she snatched the microphone from his headset and gently shoved him aside.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
She turned to the crowd. The feedback from the stolen mic screeched, a piercing wail that silenced the nearest hundred people.
Skye didn’t ask for help. She didn’t explain.
She brought the mic to her lips and closed her eyes.
She began to sing.
It wasn’t a pop song. It wasn’t a ballad. It was a low, mournful jazz standard, a melody she’d learned in her previous life when loneliness was her only companion. Her voice, raw and raspy from the desert air and the stress, poured out of the speakers. It was haunting. It cut through the noise of the fountains like a razor blade through silk.