Chapter 827
The silence of the last week was louder than the crash of that chandelier at the Opera House. Travis Tate had slipped away in the chaotic aftermath of the extraction—a failure Lucian was still punishing himself for. We had secured him, or so we thought, but amid the falling glass and the smoke grenades deployed by the impostors, the slippery heir had vanished into the night. We had lost our only live link to the Phoenix, leaving us with nothing but paranoia. Every face on the street looked like a mask; every shadow looked like an impostor.
And then, into this vacuum of trust, the invitations arrived.
They came on heavy, cream-colored cardstock, smelling faintly of gardenias and old money.
The Platinum Gala. Hosted by Bianca White.
It was a summons, not an invitation. And in the week since the chandelier crashed down, since the world learned that enemies could wear the faces of our friends, silence had been our only strategy. Alistair hated it. He wanted to burn the city down to find the people responsible for taking Victoria. But I knew better. You don’t hunt ghosts with fire; you hunt them by walking into their haunted houses.
We had received intel that the Blue Phoenix would be making a move tonight—and, more importantly, that Victoria Hayes might be the trophy on display.
𝘛𝗁𝗲 𝗯𝘦s𝘵 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗇g 𝖾𝗑pе𝗿𝘪eոс𝗲 𝘰𝗇 𝗀a𝘭ոо𝗏𝗲𝗅ѕ.𝘤о𝗺
The Platinum Hotel was a monolith of glass and steel piercing the stormy sky of Sea City. Inside, the ballroom was a suffocating embrace of velvet, crystal, and nervous laughter.
I smoothed the skirt of my silver dress. It was made of thousands of tiny metallic tassels that shifted like liquid mercury with every step I took. Beside me, the space was empty where a friend should have been. I scanned the room, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Do you see her?” Alistair’s voice crackled in my hidden earpiece. He was positioned in the surveillance van outside, his patience wearing thin.
“Not yet,” I whispered, keeping my lips barely moving. “But Bianca is preening like a peacock. She’s hiding something.”
I moved through the crowd, my eyes darting. The room was filled with the city’s elite—politicians, tech moguls, heirs to crumbling fortunes. But there was a tension here that didn’t belong at a charity gala. The waiters weren’t smiling. They moved with the stiff, efficient grace of soldiers. The exits were guarded by men who looked too big for their tuxedos.
“Look at them,” I murmured, nodding toward the perimeter. “Three times the usual security. And see the bulge under the jacket of the man by the champagne tower? That’s not a wallet.”
“I see them,” Alistair growled. “Lucian is moving into position near the service elevators. Be careful, Skye. This feels like a cage.”
“It is a cage,” I said. “And I just walked right into it.”
I reached up to adjust my diamond earring, tapping the hidden comms unit twice. “Lucian. Status. The vibe in here is wrong.”
Static.
I pressed harder. “Lucian? Alistair?”
Nothing but the sharp, angry hiss of white noise.
My stomach dropped. It wasn’t just a bad connection. It was a localized jammer. Someone had erected a digital wall around this ballroom.
Suddenly, a gasp rippled through the crowd near the stage. I turned, and my breath hitched.
Victoria.
She was being led out from behind a velvet curtain by two burly security guards. She looked pale, her eyes wide and unfocused, wearing a red dress that looked like a wound against her skin. She wasn’t a guest; she was a prop.
“Victoria!”
I started to push through the crowd, ignoring the glares of the socialites.
Then, a loud mechanical thud echoed through the hall.
The main double doors swung shut, the heavy oak panels carved with intricate lions.
A beat later came the sound of magnetic locks engaging—a series of heavy metallic clicks that sounded like the cocking of a dozen pistols.
The music stopped. The chatter died instantly. A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the room.
“Why did they lock the doors?” a woman in a red dress asked, her voice rising in pitch.
A spotlight slashed through the dim lighting, striking the mezzanine balcony.
Bianca White stood there. She looked like a fallen angel wrapped in swan feathers. Her dress was pure white, a stark contrast to the darkness in her eyes. She held a microphone loosely in one hand, a glass of dark red wine in the other.
“Welcome,” she purred, her voice amplified by the speakers. “To my little game.”
She took a sip of wine, her gaze sweeping over the terrified crowd below.
“You look so pretty. So expensive. Like cattle wrapped in silk.”
“Let us out, Bianca!” a man shouted from the front. “This isn’t funny!”
Bianca laughed. It was a wet, jagged sound. “Funny? Oh, darling. The comedy hasn’t even started yet.”
She snapped her fingers.
Behind her, a massive LED screen flickered to life. Red digital numbers burned into the darkness.