Chapter 482
Chapter 482:
“Skye?” Lucian shook her shoulder.
“I’m… so tired,” she murmured.
Lucian shouted into the hallway. “Get the doctor! Now p>
Within minutes, the private doctor on Lucian’s staff arrived. He checked Skye’s pulse. He shone a light in her eyes. Skye held her breath for short intervals, forcing her heart rate to skip and flutter.
“Well?” Lucian demanded.
“Her pulse is irregular,” the doctor said. “She’s exhausted. Dehydrated. And likely hypoglycemic from lack of food p>
“Hypoglycemic,” Lucian repeated. He glanced at the door where Marcus had exited.
“The stress of the… incident… likely triggered a faint,” the doctor added.
Lucian nodded, his paranoia finding a logical anchor. Marcus hadn’t just been lecherous; he had endangered the asset’s health.
“She needs food,” the doctor said. “Protein. Sugar. And rest p>
“Bring her a steak,” Lucian ordered Tessa, who was hovering in the doorway. “Rare. And wine p>
He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Skye’s hair. It was a possessive gesture, like petting a prize cat.
“You need your strength,” Lucian said softly. “Tonight is a big night p>
Skye opened her eyes slowly. She looked at him with feigned weakness.
“Is he gone?” she whispered.
“Marcus is gone,” Lucian assured her. “He won’t bother you again p>
Skye closed her eyes again, letting out a long, shaky breath.
Victory tasted sweet. Marcus had been the only one who saw through her. Without him, Lucian was relying on generic muscle men who looked at her body, not her eyes.
“Eat,” Lucian said as Tessa brought the tray. “Then get dressed p>
Skye sat up. She ate the steak voraciously, though she maintained her elegant manners. Every bite was fuel. Every swallow was energy she would need to run, to fight, to survive.
She finished the meal and drank the glass of water.
“I’m ready,” she said.
𝘚𝘩𝗮𝘳𝖾 𝗒𝗼𝗎𝗋 𝘧а𝘃𝗼𝘳𝗶𝘁𝖾ѕ fro𝗺 b𝗲.сom
Evening fell over the desert, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and blood orange. The stylists Lucian had hired entered the room. They wheeled in a rack of gowns.
Skye stood. She dismissed the Western styles—the strapless ball gowns, the sequined sheaths. They were too generic.
Her eyes landed on a dress at the end of the rack.
It was crimson—a deep, violent red. It was inspired by a qipao but modernized: high collar, sleeveless, with a slit that ran dangerously high up her thigh. The fabric was silk, embroidered with subtle gold phoenixes.
It was a power move. In Chinese culture, red was luck. It was joy. But it was also blood.
“That one,” Skye said.
The stylists dressed her. The silk fit like a second skin. It restricted nothing. She could run in this. She could kick in this.
They pulled her hair back into a severe, sleek bun, exposing the sharp line of her jaw.
Skye took the makeup brush from the artist. “I’ll do the lips,” she said.
She applied the lipstick herself—dark, matte.
She looked into the mirror.
The woman staring back was not a victim.
She looked like a weapon sheathed in silk.
The door opened. Lucian entered, wearing a tuxedo. He stopped. His eyes widened. He had expected her to look beautiful. He had not expected her to look… formidable.