Chapter 273
Chapter 273:
The agency makeup artist, a harried woman with dark circles under her eyes, looked at me and sighed. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m running behind. Whitney’s team needed the good lighting p>
“It’s fine,” I said.
I sat down at a small, cramped station in the corner. The mirror was cracked at the bottom. I pulled out my own kit. It wasn’t much—just concealer, a brow pencil, and a tube of lip balm.
I studied my reflection. Grace’s words from yesterday still stung. Robotic. No soul.
I decided to lean into it. I didn’t try to cover the faint shadows under my eyes. I didn’t add blush to fake a healthy flush. I brushed my brows up, defined my cheekbones with a sharp contour, and left my lips bare. I looked stark. Cold. Real.
Whitney stood up. She looked like a pageant queen. Her skin was caked with foundation, her eyes heavy with false lashes, her lips overlined and glossy. She looked expensive—and entirely artificial.
The doors swung open. The photographer, a man named Henri who was notorious for throwing cameras when he wasn’t inspired, marched in. He wore a scarf despite the heat of the lights.
He stopped in front of Whitney. He frowned, wrinkling his nose.
“Too plastic. Wipe it off p>
Whitney’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? This is professional contouring p>
“It captures the light like a grease trap,” Henri snapped. “We’re selling ‘Rebirth,’ not Barbie. Next p>
His eyes swept the room, dismissing girl after girl. Then they landed on me in the corner.
He walked over, shoving Daphne out of the way. He reached out and tilted my chin up with a rough, calloused finger. He stared at me for a long moment, studying the sharp angle of my jaw, the defiance in my eyes.
“Raw,” he murmured. “Perfect p>
He raised his camera and snapped a test shot right there, without setting up the lights. The flash blinded me for a second.
“That’s the face,” Henri announced to the room. “That’s the hunger p>
Whitney let out a screech of indignation. She stormed out of the room, her team trailing behind her like confused ducklings, to scrub her face.
Across the city, in the penthouse office of Kensington Tower, the mood was significantly less triumphant.
Liam Kensington sat at his massive mahogany desk, staring at a tablet screen. It wasn’t a tabloid photo. It was a live feed from a security camera outside the Vance Media building, obtained through less-than-legal means. He watched Skye walk in earlier that morning, head held high, wearing simple leggings. She looked untouchable.
аl𝗹 𝗇𝘰v𝗲𝗹ѕ f𝗿𝘦𝘦 o𝗻 𝗯𝘦.𝗰оm
“Why didn’t the money work?” Liam asked, his voice hollow. He sounded like a child who couldn’t understand why his toy was broken.
Secretary Lee stood by the window, adjusting his glasses. “Because she doesn’t need your money anymore, sir. The news of the Thorne settlement hasn’t hit the press yet, but our sources say the transfer was authorized yesterday. Fifty million, with more structured payments to follow p>
Liam looked lost. He ran a hand through his hair, ruining the perfect style. “Then what does she want? I offered her the trust fund. I offered to pay her debts. She looked at me like I was offering her poison p>
“She doesn’t want your assets, sir,” Lee said gently. “She wants… effort. Time. Romance. Things that can’t be wire-transferred p>
Liam scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do romance. I do acquisitions. I do mergers p>
He paused, looking at the financial reports scattered across his desk—red ink everywhere. The company was in restructuring. His personal accounts were frozen or drained to keep the stock afloat.
Lee sighed. He walked to the desk and placed a colorful, glossy brochure on top of the bankruptcy filings.