Chapter 445
Chapter 445:
Alistair frowned. He checked the Patek Philippe on his wrist. He cursed, a low, elegant stream of French profanity. Then he immediately pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over a contact.
“I’ll call the mayor,” he said, deadly serious. “He owes me a favor. I can have the office opened in twenty minutes p>
Skye reached out and covered his phone screen with her hand.
“Alistair,” she said gently. “We have the settlement, but we still need to file for the marriage license. There’s a waiting period. It takes twenty-four hours to process the filing into the system p>
He looked at her like a child who’d been denied candy. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He glanced at the phone, then at the divorce papers in her lap, then back at her.
“I am not waiting,” he said. “I have waited five years, Skye. I am not waiting another second p>
“We have to wait until morning,” she reasoned. “Unless you want to kidnap a clerk p>
“I am considering it,” he admitted.
Skye couldn’t help it. She laughed—real laughter, bubbling up from her chest.
Alistair’s expression softened as he watched her. The manic urgency faded, replaced by deep, simmering heat.
He took her left hand and lifted it to his lips.
He didn’t kiss her knuckles. He turned her hand over and kissed her ring finger—the pale band of skin where Liam’s wedding ring used to sit, the skin still slightly lighter than the rest of her hand.
He kissed it once. Twice. As if he were erasing the mark the other ring had left. As if he were claiming the skin itself.
“Then tomorrow,” he said, his voice rough. “First thing. But we are not going back to the penthouse p>
He pressed the intercom button again.
“Change of destination,” Alistair said. “Take us to The Manor p>
Skye’s breath hitched. The Manor. The ancestral home of the Thorne family. The fortress where Silas Thorne, the patriarch, lived.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Your grandfather p>
“He needs to know,” Alistair said, intertwining his fingers with hers. “He needs to know that the Queen has finally arrived p>
ո𝘢𝘃𝘪gа𝗍𝗲 е𝖺𝘀𝗶𝗅𝘺 о𝘯 𝘣𝖾.с𝗈𝗺
The iron gates of Thorne Manor were taller than prison walls. They swung open silently as the Maybach approached, the metal crest of the Thorne family—a hawk clutching a serpent—gleaming in the twilight.
My stomach twisted into a knot.
I had faced corporate sharks, media storms, and murderers. But Silas Thorne was a different breed of monster. He was the man who had built the Thorne empire from blood and dust. He was known for being ruthless, traditional, and terrifyingly observant.
“Breathe,” Alistair whispered, squeezing my hand. “He already respects you. He just doesn’t know it yet p>
The car stopped in front of the main entrance. It wasn’t a house; it was a gothic cathedral made of stone.
We walked into the grand foyer. It was cavernous. A double staircase swept up to the second floor, and a crystal chandelier the size of a small car hung overhead.
A line of servants stood waiting. They bowed their heads as we passed. They didn’t make a sound.
“Master Alistair,” the butler intoned. “He is in the drawing room p>
Alistair didn’t let go of my hand. He led me down the hallway, past portraits of stern-faced ancestors who all seemed to be judging my outfit.
We entered the drawing room. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows on the dark wood paneling.