Chapter 9
For a brief moment, Vivian looked shaken.
Then recognition settled in, and with it came contempt.
She straightened, pushed away from Lucas, and jabbed a finger toward my face.
“So you’re that girl’s sister? That explains the cheap little act. You people really think dressing up in robes and playing mysterious can scare us?”
She laughed harshly. “If you’re so powerful, why not make yourself a billionaire? Why are you here in bargain-bin robes putting on a show for attention?”
Around the room, nervous whispers spread.
Some people, eager for an explanation that made sense, began nodding to themselves.
Maybe I was just bluffing.
Maybe it was all tricks.
I tilted my head slightly. “You make a fair point. If my purpose here is justice, then why should I settle for warning signs?”
Lucas stepped in then, choosing a colder strategy.
“Summer Reed,” he said, “if you’re here because of your sister, name your price. Money. A job. A visa. A house. Whatever you want.”
Vivian turned on him immediately. “Why are you negotiating with trash?”
Then she pulled out her phone and made a call.
“Dad,” she said, her voice tightening, “bring Master Hale. Right now.”
The room shifted at that name. A lot of the guests visibly relaxed. Master Hale was a well-known spiritual advisor among wealthy families, the kind of man invited into penthouses and boardrooms whenever rich people felt the universe owed them special protection.
I didn’t move.
That worked out just fine for me. I hadn’t even finished dinner.
So while the room held its breath and waited, I sat back down and kept eating.
The only sounds in the restaurant were the soft tap of my chopsticks and Vivian’s uneven breathing.
A few minutes later, she couldn’t take it anymore.
With a scream of rage, she rushed forward and flipped the entire table.
Plates shattered. Crystal exploded across the floor. Sauce and soup splashed everywhere.
I leaned back at exactly the right moment, still holding the bowl in my hands.
When the chaos settled, almost everything on the table had crashed to the ground.
Except my soup.
I blew on it, took a sip, and looked up at her.
“Miss Clarke,” I said calmly, “too much anger is bad for the body. And wasting food always brings consequences.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
“Consequences? Please. Do you know how many people I’ve ruined? How many girls cried and begged? Nothing ever happened to me.”
She leaned closer, smiling with open malice.
“I’m the consequence.”