Chapter 221
Chapter 221:
Alistair looked at her with pure ice in his eyes. “You faked it p>
“I did it for us!” Victoria screamed, clinging to her script even as the ship sank. “She’s poison, Alistair p>
Alistair turned his back on her. He walked to Skye.
“I’m sorry,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I should have handled this sooner.” He took Skye’s hand. “Let’s go p>
Skye looked at Liam, who was standing alone—his “star” exposed as a fraud, his gala ruined.
“Enjoy the movie, Liam,” Skye said.
She walked out with Alistair, the golden dress shining under the lights, leaving the wreckage of her enemies behind her.
But as they reached the exit, police sirens wailed outside.
A detective blocked the door. “Mr. Kensington? We have a warrant for your arrest. Your emergency bail has been revoked due to new evidence regarding the assault on Victor Sterling—specifically, flight risk and witness tampering. You’re coming with us p>
Liam looked at Skye one last time. He didn’t fight. He just smiled, a broken, terrifying smile.
“It’s not over, Skye,” he mouthed. “Checkmate is a long way off p>
Skye shivered as the doors closed, realizing that a cornered beast is always the most dangerous.
The massive LED screen wrapped around the corner of the Kensington Global headquarters flickered, half-dismantled by a crew of workers suspended in harnesses. It was no longer bright enough to be seen from space; it was a glitching, dying monument to failure.
Liam Kensington stood in his office, staring down at the street, his reflection in the glass looking haggard and ghostly.
Just forty-eight hours ago, he had been led out of this building in handcuffs, the flashbulbs of the press blinding him. Now, out on an exorbitant bail that had drained his personal liquidity, he watched as the workers peeled away the digital panels that had once displayed her face.
𝘑𝗼𝘪𝗻 𝘁h𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝘂𝗇it𝗒 𝗮𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝗻o𝘷е𝗹𝘀.𝘤o𝗆
Victoria Hayes.
She wasn’t smiling anymore. The screen cycled through a distorted, pixelated fragment of her blonde hair before cutting to black. The caption that once read “The New Face of Kensington Pictures” was now being scrubbed away by the dismantling crew.
She was gone—hiding in some non-extradition country, or perhaps already in Interpol custody, singing like a canary about the money-laundering scheme Skye had exposed at the gala.
Liam gripped the crystal tumbler in his hand until his knuckles turned the color of bone. The ice inside had melted long ago, leaving a ring of condensation on the mahogany desk.
He hated that billboard. He hated the money it had cost—money he didn’t have. He hated the woman on it, with her fake fragility and her betrayal that had cost him his reputation.
But mostly, he hated that Skye had won.
“Mr. Kensington p>
Liam didn’t turn. He watched a pigeon land on the ledge outside, pecking at an invisible crumb.