Chapter 11
Chapter 11:
The silence in the drain was deafening, broken only by the drip of water and the crackle of the fire raging above them.
“Alistair!” Skye hissed again, her hands trembling as she touched his face. The blood from his forehead was warm and sticky.
He groaned, his eyes fluttering open. They were unfocused for a second before sharpening into steel. “Skye? Are you hurt p>
“I’m fine,” she choked out. “You saved me p>
Alistair sat up, wincing as he pushed a piece of concrete off his leg. He looked up at the grate. It was blocked by debris, but a sliver of gray, rainy sky was visible.
“We need to move,” he said, his voice rough. “The structure is unstable p>
They crawled through the muck of the drainage pipe for what felt like miles until they saw light. They emerged into a drainage ditch a hundred yards from the warehouse, gasping for clean air. The rain washed the soot from their faces.
Skye climbed up the muddy bank and looked toward the road. She saw the taillights of Liam’s car fading into the distance.
He hadn’t waited.
He hadn’t checked.
He had assumed she was dead and driven away with his mistress.
A coldness that had nothing to do with the rain settled in her chest.
“My car is stashed in the woods,” Alistair said, climbing up beside her. He wiped the blood from his eye. “I’ll take you to a safe house. You’re dead to the world now, Skye. It’s a clean slate p>
Skye watched the empty road where her husband had abandoned her. “No p>
Alistair frowned. “No p>
“Take me back to the manor,” Skye said. Her voice was devoid of emotion, the voice of a woman who had just burned her last bridge.
“Skye, you’re in shock,” Alistair argued. “Liam left you to die. Why would you go back p>
а𝘥𝖽𝗶ctі𝘃е 𝗻о𝗏𝖾lѕ оո 𝖻𝖾.с𝗈𝗆
“Because if I disappear now, I’m a victim.” Skye turned to him, her eyes burning with terrifying resolve. “I don’t want to be a ghost, Alistair. I want to be a nightmare. I want to walk through that front door and watch the color drain from his face. I want to take everything he has p>
Alistair studied her for a long moment. He saw the fire in her eyes, the steel in her spine. He nodded slowly.
“Very well,” he said. “Let’s go make them regret surviving p>
An hour later, Skye stood before the heavy oak doors of the library at Kensington Manor. She had showered in the guest wing, scrubbing the sewer stench from her skin until she was raw. She had dressed in a high-necked black blouse to hide the bruises on her neck and ribs.
The library was designed to intimidate. It was a cavernous room of dark mahogany and leather, smelling of old paper and judgment. Rain lashed against the tall, leaded windows, the sound muffled by heavy velvet drapes, creating a sealed chamber where silence felt like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums.
Beatrice Kensington sat in her high-backed chair near the unlit fireplace. She was a woman carved from granite and old money, her silver hair coiffed into an immovable helmet, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her cane, topped with a silver hawk’s head, tapped rhythmically against the Persian rug.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was the sound of a countdown.
Skye Sterling stood just inside the heavy oak doors. She kept her head lowered, not just in submission, but to hide the faint tremor that still rattled her bones. The hot shower hadn’t washed away the phantom sensation of rough ropes biting into her wrists. Her rib cage throbbed with a dull, sickening ache where she had slammed against the concrete wall during the blast. Every shallow breath was a reminder of the shockwave that had nearly pulped her insides.
To the untrained eye, she looked like a chastised child—a broken woman terrified of the matriarch’s wrath.
But beneath the curtain of her lashes, Skye’s eyes were dry and calculating. She adjusted her breathing, keeping it shallow to minimize the movement of her bruised torso. She needed to look rattled. She needed Beatrice to see a victim, not a threat. She needed them to believe she was a fragile thing that had miraculously stumbled home, not a survivor who had crawled out of hell with vengeance.
“Come closer,” Beatrice commanded. Her voice was like dry leaves scraping over concrete.
Skye took three tentative steps forward, wincing internally as her bruised knee protested. She let her shoulders slump slightly, a performance of defeat.
“Grandmother,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing. “You summoned me p>
Beatrice didn’t answer immediately. She picked up a tabloid newspaper from the side table—The Sea City Gazette—and threw it on the floor at Skye’s feet. The pages fluttered open, revealing a grainy photo of Skye in her red dress at the auction, hand raised, bidding on the wasteland.
The headline screamed: STERLING MADNESS: HEIRESS BUYS TRASH FOR MILLIONS.
“Explain this,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “My auditors flagged the withdrawal this morning. The press caught wind of it an hour ago. Have you finally lost the little sense you had? Five hundred million dollars on a toxic dump? Are you trying to bankrupt this family, or just humiliate it p>
Skye stared at the newspaper. She remembered the rush of adrenaline when she raised that paddle. But now, she clasped her hands tighter, digging her nails into her palms until the sharp pinch of pain grounded her against the memory of the ticking bomb.