Chapter 238
Alistair stepped forward, his expression bored. “You mean the body of the cartel hitman from 2018? The one my father supposedly killed?”
Seraphina froze. “Yes! I have the photos!”
“That was a sanctioned CIA operation,” Alistair said coldly. “The files were declassified last month. Your ‘leverage’ is public record, Seraphina. You have nothing.”
Liam staggered back. He looked at Skye. He looked at the baby.
He looked at the ruins of his life.
“Checkmate,” Skye whispered.
As the agents handcuffed Seraphina, Liam fell to his knees. He didn’t scream. He didn’t fight. He just broke.
Skye turned to Alistair. He was watching her with awe, and a little bit of fear.
“It’s over,” Skye said.
“No,” Alistair said, taking her hand. “The war is over. The reign begins.”
He kissed her, right there in the wreckage of the Kensington dynasty. And for the first time in a long time, Skye didn’t feel cold.
She felt like fire.
The chaos of the Kensington Manor faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the roof of Alistair’s armored SUV. The flashing lights of the police cruisers were a distant memory, but the adrenaline still hummed in Skye’s veins, a low vibration that made her hands tremble.
Alistair drove in silence, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the road with the intensity of a man expecting an ambush. He hadn’t taken her back to his penthouse—the Thorne family lawyers were already swarming it, desperate for damage control after the public spectacle. He couldn’t let her stay at the Sterling estate, which was still a war zone of federal agents and uncertainty.
“Go to Julian’s,” Alistair had whispered before they left the manor. “He’s the only one with walls thick enough to keep the world out tonight.”
And now, hours later, the storm outside the Vance estate was not merely weather; it was a violent assault against those stone walls. Wind howled through the ancient chimneys, sounding like trapped spirits clawing their way out.
Skye woke with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs.
For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The heavy velvet curtains, the unfamiliar scent of cedar and old paper, the lightning flashing against the windowpane—it all felt like a different kind of prison. Then memory washed over her. She wasn’t in the asylum. She wasn’t in the Kensington Manor. She was in Julian Vance’s guest wing.
𝘋o𝗐𝗻l𝗼a𝗱 𝘧𝗿е𝖾 𝘰𝗻 𝖻𝗲𝘭nо𝘷𝖾𝗹𝘴.𝖼𝗈𝘮
Her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. She threw off the heavy duvet, her bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. The chill traveled up her legs, grounding her. She needed water.
She opened the bedroom door and stepped into the corridor. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic drumming of rain against the roof. Shadows stretched long and distorted, dancing with every flicker of lightning.
She made her way toward the kitchen, but as she passed the heavy oak doors of the library, she heard a sound.
A wet, rattling cough, followed by a dull thud—like a body hitting the floor.
Then came wheezing. A desperate, wet gasp for air that made the hair on her arms stand up.
She didn’t think. She pushed the door open.
The library was dark, illuminated only by intermittent flashes from the storm outside. But it was enough to see him.
Julian Vance.
The mastermind. The shadow king of Wall Street.
He was curled into a ball on the Persian rug, clutching his chest with one hand and his throat with the other. His face, usually a mask of bored indifference, was contorted in pure, primal terror. A pristine white handkerchief lay on the floor beside him, stained with a shocking, bright spray of fresh blood.