Chapter 184
Chapter 184:
She reached out to touch his arm.
Liam flinched as if burned. He swung his arm out, knocking a cup of hot tea off the table. It splashed onto Seraphina’s hand.
“Ah!” Seraphina screamed, clutching her hand. The burn was minor, turning the skin pink, but she wailed as if she’d been doused in acid. “My hand! My baby p>
“Look at what you’ve done!” Beatrice rushed to Seraphina. “You’re unstable, Liam! You are a danger to yourself and this family p>
She pressed a button on the wall. Two large security guards entered immediately.
“Escort Mr. Kensington to his quarters,” Beatrice ordered. “He is to be sedated if necessary. He needs rest before the funeral p>
“You can’t do this,” Liam snarled as the guards grabbed his arms.
“I just did,” Beatrice said coldly. “For your own protection p>
Liam struggled, but he was weak from hunger and exhaustion. They dragged him out of the room, his eyes fixed on the shoe on the mantel until the doors slammed shut.
Seraphina stopped crying the moment he was gone. She looked at her slightly reddened hand and smirked.
“Go upstairs, child,” Beatrice said wearily. “Rest. We have a funeral to plan p>
Seraphina walked up the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the banister. She felt a thrill of victory. Skye was dead. Liam was broken. Beatrice was desperate. The house was hers.
She walked past the guest wing and went straight to the master bedroom—Skye’s old room. The door was unlocked.
She pushed it open and stepped inside. The room smelled of roses and expensive perfume. Skye’s clothes were still in the closet. Her jewelry box sat on the vanity.
Seraphina walked to the closet and ran her hand over silk and velvet. She pulled out a diamond necklace—a wedding gift from Arthur Sterling—and held it to her neck in front of the mirror.
“It suits me better,” she whispered to her reflection.
R𝖾𝖺d 𝘸і𝘵h𝗼𝘶t 𝗶𝗇𝗍e𝘳𝗿𝘶р𝗍і𝘰𝗇𝘀 𝗼n 𝘣𝗲𝗅nо𝘃е𝗹ѕ.𝗰𝗼𝘮
In a safe house on the outskirts of the city, hidden behind high walls and security cameras, Skye sat on a velvet sofa. Harper Quinn paced the floor, holding a glass of wine she was drinking a little too quickly.
“I can’t believe they’re actually doing it,” Harper said, gesturing to the TV screen where a news anchor discussed the upcoming memorial service. “Beatrice is turning your death into a PR stunt. It’s disgusting p>
“It’s predictable,” Skye said. She was calm, filing her nails. “Beatrice needs a distraction from the stock crash. A dead, beloved wife is the perfect shield p>
“And Liam?” Harper asked, sinking onto the sofa beside her. “Have you seen the photos? He looks… Skye, he looks like he’s dying p>
Skye paused. She looked at the image on the screen—a paparazzi shot of Liam being dragged into the house.
“He’s suffering,” Skye admitted. “But suffering isn’t redemption, Harper. It’s just a consequence p>
She stood and walked to a garment bag hanging on the door. She unzipped it slowly.
Inside was a dress. A masterpiece of crimson silk, cut low in the front and back, with a train that pooled on the floor like spilled blood. It was vibrant, aggressive, and completely inappropriate for a funeral. It was the dress she had saved for a gala that never happened, a ghost from a time when she still had hope.