Chapter 343
Chapter 343:
Beatrice’s eyes rolled back. Her head lolled to the side.
The door behind Skye burst open.
“Grandmother p>
Liam’s voice. Slurred. Groggy. Fighting the sedatives.
He stumbled into the room, holding the doorframe. He saw Beatrice slumped in the chair, her skin gray, her breathing shallow and ragged.
“Grandmother!” Liam screamed.
He tried to run, but his legs were weak. He dropped to his knees beside the chair, grabbing Beatrice’s hand and rubbing it hard.
He whipped his head around to Skye. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion and a drug-induced haze.
“What did you do to her?!” he roared.
Skye stood slowly. In a blink, the cold executioner vanished. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes widened, and her hands flew to her mouth in a perfect pantomime of shock.
“I… I don’t know,” Skye stammered, voice trembling. “I just came to ask about the investigation… she saw the news report about Arthur and just… she started gasping p>
Liam didn’t have the bandwidth to process the lie. He was too busy feeling for a pulse that was barely there.
“Call an ambulance!” he shouted at Higgins, who hovered in the doorway, terrified. “Now p>
Higgins scrambled for the phone.
Skye stepped back into the shadows of the bookshelf. While Liam frantically loosened Beatrice’s collar, pleading with her to breathe, Skye quietly bent down.
Her fingers closed around the photocopy on the floor.
She slipped it back into her bag.
Paramedics swarmed the room minutes later. The air filled with radio static and the sharp scent of antiseptic. They loaded Beatrice onto a stretcher.
Liam stood, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked at Skye. His expression was complicated—suspicion warring with the desperate need to believe she wasn’t a monster.
𝘖r𝘪𝗀𝗂n𝘢𝘭 соո𝗍𝗲𝗇𝘵 𝖿𝘳𝘰𝗆 𝖻e.cоm
“If anything happens to her…” Liam started, his voice cracking. “I won’t forgive you p>
Skye lowered her head. “I hope she makes it, Liam. Truly. She has so much left to answer for p>
Liam turned and ran after the stretcher.
The room went quiet. Teacup shards lay scattered across the floor.
Skye walked to the window. She watched the ambulance lights fade into the rain.
She pulled out her phone and dialed Alistair.
“It’s done,” she said, her voice devoid of the tremors she’d faked for Liam. “The Matriarch is down. The vacuum is created. Now, we watch them scramble p>
The sky over the Kensington Family Cemetery was the color of a healing bruise—mottled purples and dark grays. A persistent, icy drizzle fell, coating black umbrellas in a sheen of moisture.
The procession was small. Too small for a family that claimed to rule the city. The scandal of Arthur Sterling’s confession had kept the usual sycophants away.
Liam stood by the newest open plot—not for a body, but for a commemoration of his grandfather’s anniversary. He looked hollowed out. His black coat hung loosely on his frame, hiding the heavy bandaging around his midsection where he had been stabbed days ago while saving Skye. He was pale, sweating despite the cold, his body clearly not ready to be upright.