Chapter 917
“Silas played you,” Skye said. “He used you to get in the door. He would have cut you loose the moment the ink was dry.”
“You’re lying!”
“Am I?” Skye held up her phone.
On the screen was a video Liam had sent her five minutes ago — security footage from the Onyx Lounge, captured just before the party. It showed Silas speaking quietly to his head of security.
“Once the old witch signs over the proxy, arrange an accident. She knows too much.”
Beatrice stared at the screen. Her face crumbled. The fight went out of her all at once, and she slid down the side of the car, sobbing onto the oil-stained concrete.
“He was going to kill me,” she whispered.
“We should leave her to him,” Alistair said, stepping back in disgust.
𝖬𝘰rе 𝘯ov𝘦𝘭𝘀 𝗼ո 𝗴𝘢l𝗇𝗈𝗏е𝘭s.cо𝗆
“No.” Skye reached into her bag and pulled out a document. She dropped it onto Beatrice’s lap. “Sign it. Transfer everything to Alistair. Confess to the embezzlement. Then turn yourself in.”
“Why would I do that?” Beatrice sniffled.
“Because if you go to prison,” Skye leaned down, her voice cold and even, “you’ll be safe. If you stay out here, Silas will find you. And he won’t be nearly as polite as we are.”
Beatrice looked at the pen. She looked at the shadows pooling at the edges of the garage. She understood, at last, that she had no friends left.
With a shaking hand, she signed.
“Get out of my sight,” Alistair said.
She scrambled into the car and peeled away, heading straight for the nearest precinct.
Alistair watched the taillights disappear. Then he leaned back against a concrete pillar, tipping his head up toward the ceiling.
“It’s done,” he whispered. “The family is mine. But it feels… empty.”
“It’s not empty,” Skye said. She walked to him and placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. “It’s clean. You scrubbed the rot out, Alistair. Now you can build something real.”
He covered her hand with his. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I know,” she said gently.
They stood there in the quiet dark — two survivors in the wreckage of a dynasty.
Then Skye’s phone rang. Julian. His voice was weak and breathy.
“Skye… come to the estate. Alone. Please.”
“Julian? What’s wrong?”
“Just come. I don’t have much time.”
The line went dead.
Skye looked at Alistair. “It’s Julian. Something’s wrong.”
The library of the Vance estate was usually cold, but tonight it was stifling. A roaring fire consumed the hearth, devouring stacks of paper that Julian fed steadily into the flames.
Julian lay on a chaise lounge near the fire. He looked terrible. His skin was nearly translucent, sweat beading at his forehead, yet he shivered beneath a heavy wool blanket. He had been complaining of headaches for weeks — ever since they intercepted the comms data from the Architect — but Skye had dismissed it as stress. Now, seeing the grey veins pulsing at his temples, she understood it was something far worse.
“Julian!” Skye rushed to him. “What are you doing? You’re burning the archives?”