Chapter 989
She’s claiming sanctuary. The Dragon Hotel. Her lawyers are holding a press conference at 8 PM. She won’t be there physically — too risky — but she’ll appear on a secure video link. They are controlling the narrative remotely.
Skye stared at the message.
It’s a trap, she typed back.
It’s a stage, Julian replied. If you don’t take the mic, she will.
Skye looked at Alistair. “I’m going to the Dragon Hotel.”
“Absolutely not.” Alistair stepped into her path. “It’s a lynch mob out there, Skye. There are protestors gathering — eggs, rocks, and God knows what else. You go there, you legitimize her claim.”
“If I don’t go, silence becomes an admission of guilt,” Skye said. She walked past him into her private bathroom. “I need to change.”
Ten minutes later, she emerged. The sensible CEO suit was gone. In its place was a black dress that fit like a second skin — sharp and dangerous. Her lips were painted deep, blood red. She put on black sunglasses to hide the fatigue in her eyes.
𝗥𝘦𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗅аtе𝘀𝘵 𝘁𝘳𝘦𝗻𝖽𝘴 𝘰𝗇 𝗀𝘢𝗅n𝗈𝘃𝗲𝗅𝘴.𝗰𝘰m
“I look like a villain,” Skye said, checking her reflection. “So I might as well play the part.”
Alistair sighed, buttoning his jacket. “I assume telling you I have a sniper team on standby won’t stop you?”
“No,” Skye said. “But you can drive.”
The drive was a crawl through a city that felt hostile. The scene outside the Dragon Hotel was a nightmare. Rain had turned the protest signs into soggy pulp, but the anger was waterproof. Hundreds of people — mostly paid agitators mixed with curious onlookers — stood behind police barricades, chanting “Justice for Gemma.”
As Alistair’s armored sedan pulled to the curb, the chanting swelled into a roar.
“Stay close to me,” Alistair ordered, opening the door.
Skye stepped out. The flashbulbs were blinding, a strobe light of aggression.
Splat.
An egg struck the window beside her head. A tomato hit Alistair’s shoulder, staining his expensive grey wool coat.
Alistair didn’t flinch. He moved his body in front of hers, a human wall, shielding her from the flying debris while his eyes swept the crowd for real threats — guns, knives, anything with intent.
Skye stopped.
“Keep moving,” Alistair hissed.
Skye pushed his arm aside. She stepped away from his protection and walked directly to the barricade, mere inches from the screaming faces.
She took off her sunglasses.
The crowd faltered. They had expected her to run, to hide behind her bodyguard. They hadn’t expected her to look them in the eye.
Skye scanned the faces — angry teenagers, bored paparazzi, paid agitators. She locked eyes with a man holding a half-eaten apple, his arm cocked to throw.
“Go ahead,” Skye said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but in the sudden hush it carried like a whip crack. “Throw it. But aim carefully. Because when the autopsy report comes out tomorrow proving Arthur swallowed a cyanide pill provided by his own criminal associates, you’re going to feel very stupid holding that apple.”
The man lowered his arm.
.