Chapter 379
Chapter 379:
She picked it up and tore it open, shielding the contents from prying eyes. The handwriting was jagged, aggressive.
For the Oracle.
No name. But she knew.
It wasn’t Graves. Graves would have sent white lilies—funeral flowers.
This was Alistair. Excessive. Possessive. A territorial marker planted in the middle of her professional life. I am here. I am watching. You are mine.
She touched a petal. Soft and cool against her fingertip. A curl of annoyance and warmth twisted in her stomach. He was impossible.
“Ms. Sterling?” Kevin asked tentatively. “What should we do with them p>
“Keep them,” Skye said, slipping the card into her purse. “Send some to the local hospitals. Keep the rest here. It adds… color p>
Across the city, the atmosphere was far less fragrant.
In the solarium of Kensington Manor, Beatrice Kensington sat in her wheelchair. The morning sun was bright, but she felt cold. Her skin was gray, her lips thin and pinched.
Her assistant, a nervous woman named Sarah, handed her a tablet with trembling fingers.
“The paparazzi photos, Madame,” Sarah whispered.
Beatrice swiped through them. Blurry shots taken with a long lens through a car window. Skye leaving the safe house earlier that morning, getting into a black SUV.
A man’s hand rested on her lower back, guiding her.
Beatrice zoomed in. The face was obscured by the car frame, but the hand was clear. Large. Veined. And on the ring finger, a heavy silver ring with a crest. A wolf.
Beatrice’s breath hitched. She didn’t recognize the crest—her knowledge of the underground families was limited to the ones her husband had dealt with—but she recognized the intimacy. The way the hand claimed ownership.
“She’s cheating,” Beatrice sneered, her voice cracking. “My grandson is lying in a hospital bed, bleeding for her, and she’s sleeping with another man before the ink on the divorce papers is even dry p>
She threw the tablet onto the sofa. It bounced harmlessly on the cushions.
“Get me my PR team,” Beatrice commanded. “And make a call to the state penitentiary. Or wherever she is now. Find Seraphina Miller p>
“Madame?” Sarah looked confused. “The woman Mr. Liam sent to prison p>
𝘖𝗿g𝘢ո𝘪𝘇𝘦 y𝗈u𝘳 𝗋𝖾𝗮𝗱𝘪𝗇𝗴 𝘭𝗶st 𝗼𝘯 𝗯e.𝗰𝘰m
“Yes, that one,” Beatrice said, her eyes glittering with malice. “She was released on parole last week. I tracked the notification. She has a debt to society, but she has a bigger grudge against Skye Sterling. I want to offer her a job p>
Skye’s phone buzzed in her pocket. It was the producer for Ex-Files.
“Ms. Sterling,” the voice was frantic. “The network pushed the schedule. Filming resumes in forty-eight hours. We need you at the airfield tomorrow morning. Pack your bags p>
Skye looked at the sea of red roses in her lobby. She looked at the employees watching her, waiting for a reaction.
She typed a text to Alistair.
Too many flowers. You’re subtle as a brick. But thank you.
She hit send. Then she straightened her spine.
The stage was set.
The gravel crunched under the tires as Skye drove up the long, winding driveway of Kensington Manor. The house loomed ahead, a monument to old money and decaying morals. She didn’t want to be here. Every stone held a memory of humiliation.
But she needed her things—personal items she’d left behind in her hasty exit last week. And, strategically, she needed to be seen leaving here one last time before the show. Closure for the cameras.