<b>Chapter </b><b>67 </b>
“How much longer are you nning to eavesdrop, Mr. Haxton?”
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I didn’t even bother turning around as <b>I </b>spoke. The silence behind me confirmed what <b>I </b>already knew
-Ethan Haxton had been listening to Night’s voice messages for the past few minutes. <b>I </b>could feel his presence lingering near the doorway of the Transcendent Military Alliance’s living room.
To his credit, Ethan didn’t seem embarrassed at being caught.
“You deliberately let me hear,” he said, his voice smooth and unruffled.
I smiled, turning to face him. “Maybe.”
“About those bottles of wine you mentioned owing…” His eyes glinted with amusement. “No need to
repay me. A few bottles aren’t worth mentioning.”
“I don’t even like wine,” he added after a pause.
“Well, well.” I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall. “Aren’t you generous? As expected from the
head of the Haxton family in New York. Money to burn, huh?”
Ethan studied me for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if I was serious about paying him back. His expression shifted subtly as he seemed to decide on a different approach.
“Your boyfriend seems quite concerned about you,” he said, casually dropping the bomb while watching for my reaction.
So he’d definitely heard Night’s messages. I didn’t bother correcting his assumption about Night being my boyfriend–it was easier this way.
“Him?” I replied with deliberate vagueness.
Ethan’s brow furrowed slightly at my non–answer. “Yes, him. He seems quite invested in your financial situation.” His eyes never left mine. “I couldn’t help but overhear something about selling
cars in Monaco.”
“It’s nothing,” I shrugged, offering no further exnation.
“By the way,” he continued, his tone suddenly conversational, “I asked Mayor Felix Huxley to look after you in Cloud City.”
<b>8:00 </b><b>Fri</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b><b>19 </b>
That caught me off guard. “That was you?” I always thought it was Alexander.
“Yes,” Ethan nodded. “You saved my nephew Alexander’s life. It seemed appropriate to return the favor.”
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I felt a smile tug at my lips. “Mayor Huxley has been quite helpful indeed.”
My mind raced. Why was Ethan telling me this now? What was he trying to aplish? Was this a way to establish trust, or was he trying to remind me that I owed him?
My phone buzzed, interrupting my thoughts. I nced down to see a social media friend request from Orion Miller with a message: “I’m Orion Miller.”
I dismissed the notification without responding.
Several dayster, I was sitting in the main hall of thepound when Connor Haxton walked in, carefully cradling an ornate wooden box. His expression was a mixture of reverence and anxiety as he ced it on the table.
“This just arrived for you, Miss Morgan,” he said, stepping back as if handling a bomb.
I moved forward and opened the box. Inside, nestled in ck velvet, were several bottles of whiskey -each with diamonds embedded in the ss and gold–leafbels. Night had always been
extravagant, but this was excessive even for him. ssic Night–subtle as a rhinestone tank top at a
funeral.
Connor couldn’t contain his curiosity. He picked up one bottle, turning it to examine thebel, then nearly dropped it when he found the price online.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. “This is Macan M Imperiale
Scotch whisky from <b>the </b>Isle of Iy. Limited edition. Market value… <b>$</b>398,000 per bottle.”
He carefully set the bottle down as if it might explode, then picked up another with trembling hands. “And this one… Dalmore 62… $215,000.” He looked at me, bewilderment written across his face.
“There’s over a million dors of whiskey here. And they’re all–they’re all just sitting in this box like… like ordinary bottles.”
“My best friend,” I exined with a casual shrug, as if receiving million–dor whiskey collections was a weekly urrence.
<b>8:00 </b>Fri, <b>Sep </b>19
Connor’s face went through a fascinating series of expressions–shock, disbelief<b>, </b>awe, and finally something approaching existential crisis. “What kind of best friend sends whiskey that costs more than my parents‘ house? What kind of best friend do you have?”
“The generous kind,” I replied, enjoying his reaction perhaps more than I should.
Connor stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “These aren’t for drinking, right? They’re
collector’s items. People buy these as investments, not to actually consume them.”
I found his reaction oddly amusing. “What else would you do with whiskey?”
“Museums disy them! Collectors lock them in climate–controlled vaults!” Connor’s voice rose an
octave. “But they’re–each one is worth more than a house!” He stammered, hisposure
“Then some people should make better friends,” I said dryly.
Without waiting for his answer, I reached for one of the $300,000 bottles, broke the seal with a
satisfying crack, and poured two fingers into a ss.
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Connor made a sound like he was being strangled. His face turned ashen as the seal broke–like he’d
just witnessed me set fire to the Mona Lisa.
“Want some?” I offered, holding up the bottle.
Connor backed away, hands raised. “I–I couldn’t possibly…” He looked like he might faint at the
mere suggestion.
The sound of footsteps interrupted us as Ethan descended the staircase. His eyes immediately locked
onto the open whiskey bottle in my hand, then shifted to the wooden box on the table.
His expression was unreadable as he approached, but I noticed the slight tightening around his eyes -the only indication that even Ethan Haxton was impressed by Night’s extravagant gift.
‘I see your friend delivered the whiskey he promised,” Ethan said, his voice casual despite the fortune sitting on the table.
I raised my ss slightly. “He always keeps his promises.”
“Always,” Ethan repeated.