Chapter 223
Chapter 223:
“How is the market reacting to the Victoria Hayes scandal?” Skye asked.
“Down twelve percent in pre-market trading,” Ms. Davies reported. “Investors are fleeing. The removal of the billboards has confirmed the rumors. They know the merger is dead p>
“Excellent,” Skye murmured.
She picked up her phone. It was a burner, encrypted—the only way she communicated with certain assets. She typed a message to a contact saved only as The Actor.
The bird is out of the cage. The stage is yours. Tonight.
A moment later, a reply buzzed in her hand.
I know my lines. Don’t worry about the lighting.
Skye smiled.
It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a woman who had placed a bomb in the foundation and was just waiting for the cement to dry.
“Get the car,” Skye told Ms. Davies. “Gabriel Ross is going to make his debut at the Kensington Manor tonight. And I want to be there when the curtain falls p>
The photography studio in Chelsea was silent now, the lights dimmed. The shoot that was supposed to happen today had been canceled, the crews sent home.
But Gabriel Ross remained, sitting on a crate in the center of the empty room.
He wasn’t just Gabriel Ross, the rising star.
He was the Trojan Horse.
And his work was just beginning.
He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“I’m ready,” Gabriel said into the receiver. “I’ve secured the invitation to the Manor through my agent. They think I’m there to lend celebrity support to Liam’s rehabilitation tour. They have no idea I’m on the payroll of Oracle Holdings p>
“Perfect,” Skye’s voice came through the line. “Beatrice is going to try to parade Seraphina as the new infant of the Kensington family. I need you to be the sinner who points out the cracks in the stained glass p>
ѕ𝗵а𝘳𝖾 𝘆𝗈𝘂𝘳 f𝖺vо𝗋і𝘵𝘦ѕ 𝖿𝘳𝗼𝘮 𝖻e𝗅𝘯о𝘃𝗲𝗹ѕ.co𝗺
“With pleasure,” Gabriel said, a smirk playing on his lips.
At the Kensington Manor, the air was thick with the smell of old lavender and decay. Beatrice sat in her high-backed chair in the drawing room, her cane resting against her knee.
The doors opened, and Seraphina walked in.
She looked different. Prison—even just the remand center—had stripped away the polish. Her hair was duller, her skin sallow.
But her belly… her belly was round and prominent under the white maternity dress.
Beatrice’s eyes locked onto the stomach. It was the only thing she cared about.
The vessel.
The heir.
“Come here,” Beatrice commanded.
Seraphina hesitated, then walked forward. She placed a hand on her stomach, wincing slightly as if in pain. It was a calculated move.
“I’m tired, Beatrice,” Seraphina said, her voice raspy. “The drive… the stress p>