Chapter 292
Chapter 292:
“Crystal,” Grace said, her voice like ice. “Pack your things p>
“Grace, please!” Crystal begged, tears streaming down her face. “It was just a laxative! It wasn’t poison p>
“You drugged a fellow trainee,” Grace declared. “You are fired. And you are banned from the industry. I will make sure no agency in this city ever hires you p>
Security grabbed Crystal by the arms and dragged her out. Her screams echoed down the hallway.
The room was quiet. The trainees looked at Skye with a new emotion: fear. Respect.
Whitney wiped her eyes. She looked at Skye. “You… you knew p>
“I know everything,” Skye said simply.
Grace cleared her throat. “Regarding the photo on the roof, management approved the meeting between Miss Sterling and Mr. Thorne. It was for strategy. There is no illicit relationship p>
She lied to protect the company image, but it cleared Skye’s name.
Skye walked past them all, heading to her room. She caught Sebastian’s eye. He gave her a small, grateful nod.
Miles away, in a dimly lit jazz bar, Liam Kensington sat alone. A glass of whiskey sat untouched in front of him. He was staring at his phone—at an old photo of Skye laughing. It was from before the divorce, before the misery.
A woman approached his table. She wore a dress that looked remarkably like one Skye used to own.
“Mr. Kensington?” she purred. “What a coincidence p>
Liam looked up. It was Lydia Winthrop, a distant cousin of the Kensington family and a known social climber.
“Lydia,” Liam said flatly. “What do you want p>
Lydia sat down uninvited. She touched his arm. “Grandmother Beatrice sent me. She’s worried about you, Liam. She thinks you need… distraction p>
She leaned in, her perfume cloying and sweet. “Someone who understands your status. Not like that Sterling girl p>
Liam stared at her hand on his arm. A wave of revulsion rose in him.
“Get off,” he said.
𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗲.𝗰𝗼𝗺
Lydia blinked. “Excuse me p>
Liam stood up. He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “I’m not interested in my grandmother’s puppets. And don’t ever say Skye’s name again p>
He walked out, leaving Lydia humiliated in the middle of the bar. She grabbed her phone and dialed Beatrice immediately.
“He’s still obsessed,” Lydia hissed. “He rejected me p>
On the other end of the line, Beatrice Kensington sighed. She was no longer in the master suite of Kensington Manor, but pacing the smaller, dustier library of the Old Dower House at the edge of the estate—the place where widows were sent to fade away.
“Then we need the other one,” Beatrice said. “The one who knows how to manipulate him p>
A taxi pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Old Kensington Estate—the Dower House. The rain had started to fall, turning the driveway into a slick black river.
Cameras flashed blindingly in the darkness. As the taxi slowed, figures surged from the bushes—paparazzi, tipped off and hungry. They pressed their lenses against the rain-streaked glass, capturing the terrified face of the woman inside.
Seraphina Miller stumbled out of the cab, shielding her face with a trembling hand as the shutters clicked like machine-gun fire. She had spent the last hour in a public bathroom, carefully applying makeup to her arms and face. Purple eyeshadow for bruises. A split lip created with liner.
She looked like a victim. And now, thanks to the swarm of photographers, the world would see it too.