Chapter 990
“Arthur Sterling was a thief and a liar who died running from the consequences of his actions,” Skye said, addressing the cameras now. “I didn’t kill him. I stopped him. And as for the girl inside —” she pointed a gloved finger at the hotel entrance — “I’m not here to bully her. I’m here to watch her perform.”
She turned and walked up the red carpet, her heels clicking against the wet pavement. Alistair followed, blotting the tomato stain from his shoulder with a handkerchief.
“You have a flair for the dramatic,” he murmured as they reached the revolving doors.
“I learned from the best,” Skye said, her heart hammering against her ribs though her face remained stone. “Now let’s go see what lies Gemma has prepared for the main course.”
Rom𝘢𝗇𝖼𝘦 n𝘰𝘷𝗲𝗅ѕ 𝘰𝘯 ga𝗅ո𝗈𝘷el𝗌.c𝗼𝗺
The ballroom of the Dragon Hotel was a cavern of crystal chandeliers and hushed anticipation. Rows of gold-backed chairs were filled with the city’s elite and the press corps, all facing a large screen set up on the stage. A team of lawyers sat at a long table, looking solemn.
The chair at the center was empty — a theatrical void meant to represent the “missing” heiress. Gemma was not physically present, her security team claiming it was too dangerous, but her face was projected onto the screen via a secure, encrypted video link.
On screen, Gemma sat in a dim room, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. A sympathetic interviewer, likely on the Ouroboros payroll, leaned toward her with practiced concern.
“And you say she threatened you?” the interviewer asked.
“She told me…” Gemma sniffled, looking directly into the camera. “She told me she would finish what the fire started. She said there wasn’t room for two of us.”
Skye pushed the double doors open. The heavy oak slammed against the walls.
Every head in the room turned. The cameras swiveled.
She didn’t stop at the entrance. She walked down the center aisle, the sound of her heels on the parquet floor a rhythmic intrusion into Gemma’s sob story.
Gemma saw her on her own monitor. For a split second, the mask slipped — pure, unadulterated panic flashed across her face. She shrank back, pointing a trembling finger at the camera.
“She’s here!” Gemma shrieked, forgetting her script entirely. “She’s come to hurt me!”
“I can’t hurt a pixel, Vanessa,” Skye said, her voice carrying clearly across the room.
Security guards took a step forward, but Alistair simply looked at them. His hand rested casually near his hip. They froze. Alistair Thorne’s reputation in this city was a more effective deterrent than any badge.
Skye reached the front row. She didn’t storm the stage. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply sat down in the reserved seat — Arthur’s seat, as it happened — crossed her legs, and rested her chin on her hand.
“Please,” Skye said, her voice cool and faintly bored. “Don’t stop on my account. I bought a ticket to the circus.”
The lead lawyer looked flustered. “Ms. Sterling, this is a private press briefing.”
“It’s being livestreamed to three million people,” Skye corrected. “There is nothing private about this.” She turned toward the table. “Ask her about the bank account in the Caymans, counselor. Or the plastic surgeon in Rio. Or why her DNA doesn’t match the Sterling markers.”
.
.