Chapter 914
He was tall and lean, with gold-rimmed glasses that caught the light. He looked eerily like Lucian — the same sharp jawline, the same dark hair — but his eyes were wrong. Lighter. Cruel. Lacking Lucian’s weary depth.
“Silas Graves,” Alistair said, his voice dropping low.
“Cousin Alistair.” Silas smiled, revealing perfectly capped teeth. “Or should I say, former heir?”
“What is this?” Skye demanded.
“This,” Silas said, spreading his arms wide, “is a merger. My company, New Graves Holdings, has acquired thirty percent of Thorne Group’s outstanding shares. Combined with Beatrice’s proxy votes, we hold the majority.”
“That’s illegal,” Alistair stepped forward. “Grandpa’s shares are in a trust.”
“A trust that designates Beatrice as trustee in the event of his death,” Silas corrected smoothly. He drew a document from his jacket. “It’s all here. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”
“Lucian Graves is the head of the Graves family,” Skye countered. “He would never authorize this.”
Silas chuckled — a dry, dusty sound. “Poor, tragic Lucian. The board declared him mentally incapacitated after his accident. As his next of kin, I hold power of attorney.”
Skye’s blood ran cold. They had used Lucian’s coma — the cover story she and Alistair had created to protect him — against them.
“You’re lying,” Alistair snarled.
ѕto𝗋𝘪e𝘴 𝘆о𝘶 𝗐o𝗇’𝘁 р𝘶𝗍 𝘥о𝗐𝘯 𝗈𝗇 𝘨𝗮𝗅ոо𝘷e𝘭𝘴.𝗰о𝗺
“Am I?” Silas snapped his fingers.
The waiters circulating the room reached into their jackets in unison. They didn’t produce hors d’oeuvres. They produced retractable stun batons. They weren’t waiters at all. They were mercenaries.
“This is a private board meeting,” Silas said, his voice shedding its veneer of politeness. “Security — escort Mr. Thorne and Miss Sterling out. Throw them off the roof if you have to.”
The circle closed in.
Skye scanned the room. Twenty hostiles. Two of them. Bad odds.
“Felix,” Skye whispered into her earring comms. “Now would be a good time.”
“I’m in,” Felix’s voice came back, raspy, punctuated by the steady beep of a heart monitor from his secure location. “Three… two… one.”
A screech of feedback tore through the speaker system. Everyone in the room flinched, hands flying to their ears.
The giant screen behind Beatrice flickered. The organizational chart vanished. In its place, a bank statement filled the display.
Transfer: From: Thorne Estate. To: New Graves Holdings (Cayman Islands).
“What is that?” a board member shouted.
“That,” Skye said, pointing, “is embezzlement. Beatrice paid Silas with the company’s own money to buy the shares.”
“Turn it off!” Beatrice shrieked. “Kill them!”
A mercenary lunged at Skye. She ducked under his swing, grabbed a bottle of Dom Pérignon from the nearest table, and smashed it across his face.
“Alistair!”
He didn’t need prompting. He seized a heavy bar stool and hurled it into the cluster of guards, carving open a gap.
“Get to the stage!” he shouted. “We need the mic!”
Chaos erupted — a brawl in high definition. Glass shattered, people screamed, and the electric crack of stun batons split the air.
Silas stood perfectly calm at the center of the storm, adjusting his glasses. He watched them fight with the detached interest of a scientist observing rats in a maze.
“Impressive,” he murmured. “But futile.”