Chapter 747
Chapter 747:
To the world, it looked like a tragedy. To Skye, it was a promise.
They had won the battle. But the war for Liam’s soul was just beginning.
Three days. That was how long it had been since the world ended in a flash of fire and white roses. The ringing in Skye Sterling’s ears had finally faded, replaced by a silence that was somehow louder—the silence of a city holding its breath, waiting to see if the widow would crumble.
She did not crumble. She calcified.
Skye walked through the revolving doors of Kensington Global, the morning light reflecting off the glass like a blade. She wasn’t wearing mourning black. Instead, she was clad in a suit of pristine, blinding white—a deliberate, visual declaration that she was not a woman burying a husband, but a general commanding an army. She had left Alistair at the precinct, dealing with the endless interrogations and the debris cleanup, taking the heat so she could take the throne.
The interior of the lobby was usually a carefully curated blend of white tea and money, cooled to a precise sixty-eight degrees. Today, however, it smelled of old perfume, desperation, and the lingering phantom scent of ash that seemed to follow Skye wherever she went.
She didn’t stop at reception. She moved to the waiting area, sitting on a velvet ottoman with predatory grace. She opened her laptop, balanced it on her knees, and began to type with rhythmic, mechanical precision. Her eyes stayed on the spreadsheet, though her mind was miles away, buried in the scorched earth of a cathedral garden where a star had been scratched into the dirt.
He is alive.
The thought was a heartbeat, a pulse that kept her upright when every muscle in her body wanted to curl into a ball and scream. Liam was gone. To the world, he had been vaporized in the terrorist attack that had leveled the altar. To her, he was a ghost in the machine, a shadow protecting them from the dark.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound of a cane striking the marble floor echoed like gunshots.
“You cannot go up there, Mrs. Kensington,” a security guard pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please. Ms. Sterling gave strict orders p>
Rе𝖺𝗱 𝘸𝘪𝗍𝗵𝘰𝘶t c𝘶𝘁s 𝗼n 𝗯e.с𝗈m
“Ms. Sterling is a usurper!” Beatrice Kensington’s voice was shrill, lacking its usual aristocratic modulation. “I built this company while she was still learning to walk in cheap shoes! Get out of my way p>
Skye didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She could feel the eyes of the reception staff, the couriers, and the few lingering executives boring into her. This was theater, and she was the director.
Beatrice stood by the elevator banks, a wall of elderly indignation. She wore black—mourning weeds for a grandson she believed had perished in the explosion she had inadvertently helped fund. The hypocrisy was so thick Skye could taste it on her tongue, bitter as bile.
“I am the matriarch of this family!” Beatrice screamed, slamming the rubber tip of her cane onto the sensor pad as she tried to summon the lift. “I demand access to the executive suite! The stock is in freefall after the bombing! I must stabilize the board p>
Skye finished her email, hit send, and slowly closed her laptop. The soft click seemed to cut through the noise. She stood, smoothing the fabric of her white power suit.
She walked across the lobby. Her heels made no sound on the plush runner. She stopped five feet from Beatrice.