Chapter 12
Chapter 12:
“I thought it was a good investment,” Skye stammered, keeping her gaze on the rug. “I wanted to contribute. I wanted to show Liam that I could help build the family legacy p>
“Build?” Beatrice scoffed. She leaned forward, the hawk-headed cane pointing accusingly at Skye. “You don’t build, Skye. You exist. You are a Sterling, yes, but you lack the killer instinct. You lack the spine. You bought mud because you are desperate for attention p>
The insult hung in the air. Skye felt a flash of genuine anger tighten behind her sternum, aggravating her injuries, but she swallowed it down. Beatrice was right about the old Skye. But she knew nothing of the new one.
“I’m sorry,” Skye whispered. “I just… I don’t have the street smarts that some people do p>
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “What are you babbling about p>
Skye took a breath. This was the pivot.
“Miss Miller,” Skye said softly, lifting her eyes just enough to meet Beatrice’s chin. “Seraphina. She seems so… experienced. She knows how to handle people. How to get what she wants. I suppose growing up without… structure… teaches a woman how to survive in ways I never learned p>
The room went silent. The tap, tap, tap of the cane stopped.
Beatrice’s face tightened. If there was one thing the matriarch hated more than incompetence, it was low breeding. Seraphina Miller was the antithesis of everything Beatrice valued—pedigree, bloodlines, tradition. Skye had just politely reminded her that Liam was parading a nobody around town while scolding his blue-blooded wife.
“That woman,” Beatrice hissed, the venom shifting targets instantly. “She is a parasite. A common climber p>
Skye nodded, feigning agreement. “She certainly has Liam’s ear. Perhaps I should ask her for business advice. She seems to know how to manage his assets better than I do p>
Beatrice slammed her hand down on the armrest. Dust motes danced in the dim light. “You will do no such thing! A Kensington does not take advice from a mistress p>
A𝘭𝗅 у𝘰𝘂r 𝗳a𝘃𝘰rі𝗍𝖾 𝗴𝗲𝘯𝘳𝘦ѕ oո 𝘣𝖾𝗅ո𝗈𝘷e𝘭s.соm
The matriarch stood, leaning heavily on her cane. She walked toward Skye, stopping inches away. Skye could smell the scent of lavender water and decay clinging to the old woman.
“You want to help this family?” Beatrice demanded. “Stop playing business. Stop buying wastelands. Start playing wife p>
Skye forced herself not to flinch. “I try, Grandmother p>
“Try harder,” Beatrice snapped. “There is a charity gala next week for the Children’s Hospital. You will attend. You will wear something appropriate. You will stand by Liam’s side, and you will smile. And more importantly p>
Beatrice poked the tip of her cane against Skye’s stomach. The pressure was invasive, rude.
“You will produce an heir,” Beatrice commanded. “Within the year. If that Miller girl gets pregnant before you do, the scandal will be uncontainable. Do you understand me p>
A wave of nausea rolled through Skye’s gut. The thought of Liam touching her, of carrying his child after everything he had done—after he had left her to die in that warehouse—made her skin crawl. Her throat constricted in rejection.