Chapter 910
Liam Kensington stood on the periphery, sheltered beneath the canopy of an ancient oak tree. He kept his distance, leaning heavily on a black cane with a silver handle. His face was pale, and every shift of his weight produced a subtle wince that only Skye caught — the healing fractures in his leg screaming in the damp cold. He held her gaze for a fleeting second, and in it she read shared, silent pain and a quiet promise of support, before his expression hardened into neutrality. To the outside world — especially with Beatrice watching — he had to remain the enigmatic third party, the witness, not the ally who had bled for them on that highway.
Beatrice stood at the head of the grave. She wore a black veil that did little to obscure the pearl necklace worth more than Skye’s first apartment. She cast a single white rose onto the coffin. The gesture looked rehearsed.
As the ceremony ended and the guests began shuffling toward the cars for the wake at the main house, Beatrice turned and planted herself in the center of the stone path. She was flanked by four men who were clearly not family — wide, thick-necked, and wearing suits that strained at the seams.
Leading them was a man Skye recognized from the police files Julian had shown her. Boss Zhao. A mid-level enforcer for the triad, known for breaking fingers over gambling debts.
“The wake is for family only,” Beatrice announced, her voice carrying over the sound of the rain. She looked directly at Skye. “Outsiders are not welcome. Especially those with the last name Sterling.”
Alistair finally moved. He turned slowly, water dripping from his nose. “She is my fiancée, Beatrice. She is family.”
“Not legally,” Beatrice sneered. “And since the old man didn’t update his will to include your little engagement, I am the executor of this estate. I say she goes.”
“Try to make her go,” Alistair said, stepping forward, his hands curling into fists.
A𝖽𝖽𝗶c𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 nо𝗏𝘦𝗹𝘴 𝘰n ga𝘭nov𝘦𝗅𝘀.cо𝗺
Boss Zhao stepped up, chewing gum with an obnoxious, open-mouthed smack. He blocked Alistair’s path. “Easy, Little Lord. Don’t make this ugly. The lady said no.”
Alistair’s eyes darkened. He was about to snap. Skye could see the violence rising in him — the same unchecked rage from the night of the shooting. If he fought them here, at his grandfather’s funeral, he would play directly into Beatrice’s hands. She wanted him to look unstable.
Skye reached out and grabbed Alistair’s wrist. His skin was ice cold.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not here. Not today.”
“I won’t let them disrespect you,” Alistair growled, his voice rough.
“They aren’t disrespecting me,” Skye said calmly. “They are afraid of me.” She held out her hand. “Hold this.”
He blinked, confused, but took her umbrella.
Skye looked down at her Jimmy Choo stilettos — beautiful, expensive, and completely useless in a fight on wet cobblestones. She bent down and unbuckled them one by one, placing them neatly on a dry patch of grass.
The cold mud oozed between her toes. It was grounding. Real.
She stood to her full height — considerably less without the heels, but somehow she felt taller. She walked toward Boss Zhao.
“You think this is funny, Princess?” Zhao laughed, spitting his gum onto the path. “You gonna dance for us?”
“Something like that,” Skye said.
Zhao reached out to shove her back. It was a lazy, arrogant move.