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Chapter 825
The interior of the Opera House was a cavern of velvet and gold. People milled about in elaborate masks—Venetian, steampunk, animalistic. These were the profiteers of the collapse, the ones who had shorted the market before the crash.
I wore a simple black domino mask. Travis wore a fox mask. Appropriate.
“I need a drink,” Travis said immediately.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Get me a sparkling water.”
𝗥eаd f𝗋om 𝘺o𝘂r 𝘱𝘩оne 𝘰n 𝘨𝗮𝗅ոоv𝘦𝗹ѕ.с𝗼𝘮
He disappeared into the crowd.
“He’s moving toward the basement access,” Lucian’s voice crackled in my ear. He was monitoring the feeds from the van outside. “Marcus is tailing him.”
I scanned the room. My eyes landed on the stage.
A man stood there. He wore a white mask that covered his entire face, featureless except for two black eyeholes. He held a microphone.
“Welcome,” the man said.
The voice was distorted, deepened electronically. But the cadence… the arrogant tilt of the head…
It was mimicking Liam.
My breath hitched. They were using his image. Liam Kensington—my ex-husband, my ally—was currently in a secure bunker coordinating the counter-offensive. This… this was a mockery.
“Tonight,” the figure said, “we wear the faces of our conquerors. We take their image, their victory, and we twist it. The old king is dead. Long live the Phoenix.”
Suddenly, the lights flickered.
“He’s at the breaker box,” Lucian reported. “Travis is cutting the main line.”
“Stop him,” I ordered.
“On it.”
A second later, I heard a muffled yelp over the comms. Then Lucian’s voice: “Target neutralized. Power is secure. Travis was trying to kill the broadcast. He didn’t want the world to see this.”
The lights steadied.
Onstage, the impostor paused. He tapped the microphone, annoyed that the darkness hadn’t come.
“It seems,” the fake Liam said, “we have some technical difficulties. No matter. We proceed to the main event.”
He pointed straight at me.
“The Oracle,” he announced.
The spotlight swung. It blinded me.
I stood there, exposed in a sea of masks.
“Run,” Alistair’s voice came through my earpiece. He wasn’t in the van. He was in the rafters, prone with a sniper rifle.
“No,” I said.
I reached into my clutch and pressed a button on a small black device.
Signal jammer.
A high-pitched screech erupted from the speakers. People covered their ears. The impostor dropped the microphone, clutching his head.
I stepped forward.
“Nice try!” I shouted over the feedback. “But I know the real Liam Kensington. And you’re just a cheap copy.”
