Chapter 293
Chapter 293:
She pressed the intercom button. “Please,” she sobbed into the speaker. “It’s Seraphina. Help me p>
The gates buzzed open.
She was ushered into the drawing room. Matriarch Beatrice sat by the fire, drinking tea. The room was smaller than the grand hall Beatrice was used to, the furniture older, but she sat with the rigid spine of a queen in exile.
Seraphina fell to her knees on the Persian rug. “Grandmother Beatrice,” she cried. “Dominic… he’s a monster. He threw me out. He threatened to kill me because I still love Liam p>
Beatrice looked at her. She saw the bruises. She saw the tears. But mostly, she saw a weapon she could use against Skye—and a way to claw her way back into Liam’s life.
“Poor child,” Beatrice said. “You are safe here p>
Mrs. Higgins, the head maid, entered with warm towels. She walked over to Seraphina.
“Let me help you, Miss,” Mrs. Higgins said.
She reached out to dab a bruise on Seraphina’s arm. Seraphina flinched—but she flinched before the towel touched her. Then, a second later, she let out a cry of pain.
Too early, Mrs. Higgins thought. The timing is wrong.
Mrs. Higgins finished cleaning her up, her face impassive. She left the room and went straight to the kitchen pantry.
She pulled a burner phone from a jar of flour. She dialed a number.
“Mrs. Kensington has taken her in,” Mrs. Higgins whispered. “But Miss Skye… the bruises are fake. I saw the makeup come off on the towel p>
She paused, her voice softening. “Thank you for the check for Timothy’s tuition, Miss Skye. Without you, he wouldn’t be in school. I won’t forget it p>
On the other end of the line, Skye sat in her dorm room.
“I figured,” Skye said. “Keep watching her, Higgins. And Higgins p>
“Yes, Miss p>
“Check the guest logs from five years ago. The Thorne family visit. I have a suspicion Seraphina isn’t who she says she is p>
Skye hung up.
She opened her laptop to the files she had downloaded earlier on the yacht. She typed “Thorne Family Tree” into the search bar. She scrolled down.
о𝗻ly 𝘤𝘰𝗺рl𝘦𝘁е𝗱 𝘯𝗈v𝗲𝘭𝘴 𝗼ո 𝘣e.𝘤оm
Eleanor Thorne. Deceased.
Skye leaned back, a cold smile touching her lips.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “Eleanor Thorne is dead. Seraphina has been playing a ghost all along p>
She smiled. She had found the loose thread. Now, all she had to do was pull.
The air inside the Kensington Dower House tasted like stale potpourri and old secrets. It was a smaller, more suffocating version of the main manor, a place where the family parked its unwanted relics.
Mrs. Higgins moved through the guest suite with the practiced invisibility of a servant who had served three generations of Kensington matriarchs. Her hands, usually steady as they polished silver or poured tea, trembled slightly as she sorted through the pile of cashmere and silk Seraphina had carelessly discarded on the chaise lounge.
She wasn’t looking for anything. Her loyalty to the family had always been absolute, rooted in a paycheck that kept her son in university. But her loyalty to the truth—and to the young woman who had quietly paid that tuition when the Kensingtons forgot—was stronger.
Mrs. Higgins picked up a heavy winter coat Seraphina had worn earlier that morning. As she patted the pockets to check for issues before sending it for dry cleaning, her fingers brushed against something stiff and crinkled.
It wasn’t an issue.
She pulled it out.
It was a receipt from a theatrical supply company in the West End, dated two days ago, crumpled into a tight ball and shoved deep into the lining.