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Chapter 471
Chapter 471:
White frosting exploded everywhere. It coated Sienna’s face. It filled the rip in her dress. It splattered onto Beatrice’s Chanel suit.
The few guests in the room were no longer being polite. They had their phones out. They were filming.
Sienna wiped frosting from her eyes. She looked like a deranged snowman.
She saw the maid try to get up.
Sienna lost her mind.
She grabbed a handful of cake and shoved it into the maid’s face.
“You idiot! You ruined my wedding!” Sienna screamed.
The maid, a girl from the Bronx who took no prisoners, fought back. She grabbed Sienna’s expensive wig and pulled.
The wig came off.
Underneath, Sienna’s natural hair was braided flat against her skull.
The room gasped.
It turned into a brawl—frosting flying, wigs pulled, screaming.
Beatrice tried to intervene and slipped on a patch of icing, going down hard on her hip.
Security finally rushed in, pulling the two women apart.
Sienna stood there—bald, covered in cake, dress split open, panting like a wild animal.
She looked at the tripod. The red light was still blinking.
Live.
She realized her life was over.
At the Thorne Estate, the party had stopped.
Everyone was looking at their phones. A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Have you seen it?” someone shouted. “The Cake War p>
Skye watched the video on Felix’s tablet. Her face was passive.
“She destroyed herself,” Skye said quietly. “I didn’t even have to push her p>
“Gravity did the work,” Alistair noted, handing her a glass of water.
The joy of victory was palpable.
𝗘𝘅𝗰𝗹𝘂𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗲.𝗰𝗼𝗺
But then Skye’s personal phone buzzed in her clutch. It wasn’t a notification. It was a text.
Unknown Number.
Skye opened it.
Enjoy the show, my dear. You look stunning in black. It will make a lovely funeral shroud.
Attached was a photo.
It was a photo of Skye, taken right now. From a high angle. From the upper balcony of the Thorne ballroom.
Skye’s blood ran cold. She looked up, scanning the shadows of the mezzanine.
She saw a figure move—a shadow slipping behind a curtain.
“Alistair,” Skye whispered, grabbing his arm. “He’s here p>
“Who p>
“Lucian Graves p>
Before Alistair could react, another message pinged on Skye’s phone.
Julian is waiting for you in the VIP lot. He forgot his cane.
Hurry, or he might fall.
Skye’s heart stopped. She looked around. Julian was nowhere to be seen. He had left the stage ten minutes ago, claiming he needed fresh air.
“Julian!” she cried out.
