Chapter 38
Chapter 38:
Skye checked her phone. A transfer notification. $500,000.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” she said.
The next evening, Kensington Manor was a war zone of stylists. Liam had sent a team, along with a dress, a modest, pale pink chiffon number that screamed obedient wife. Skye took one look at it and threw it in the trash.
She went to her own closet. She pulled out a garment bag she had brought from the city.
When she descended the grand staircase two hours later, the air left the room.
She wasn’t wearing pink. She was wearing red again. But this was darker, a deep oxblood velvet that swallowed the light. It was structured, sharp, with a neckline that plunged dangerously and a slit that went up to her thigh. Her lips were painted the exact same shade. She looked like a queen who had just executed her enemies.
Beatrice was waiting at the bottom of the stairs in her wheelchair, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrests. Her eyes bulged.
“You insolent girl!” Beatrice shrieked, her voice cracking with rage. “I told you to burn that color! You dare wear red in my house? You look like a harlot p>
Skye stopped on the last step, looking down at the old woman. “I look like a Kensington who isn’t afraid of the dark, Grandmother. The press loves a bold statement. Pink is for victims. Red is for victors p>
Liam was standing beside Beatrice, checking his watch. He looked up. His irritation died in his throat.
He stared. He couldn’t help it. The hunger in his eyes was raw, immediate, and entirely involuntary.
“That’s not the dress I sent,” he managed to say, his voice rough.
“The pink one had an accident,” Skye lied smoothly. “Shall we p>
The limousine ride was suffocating. They sat at opposite ends of the leather seat. The air conditioning blasted, but the tension made the air feel hot and heavy.
Liam kept glancing at her leg, exposed by the slit in her dress. He shifted uncomfortably.
о𝘧𝗳iс𝘪𝖺𝘭 ѕ𝗼u𝘳𝗰e 𝗈𝖿 𝘵𝗁𝘪𝘀 ոо𝗏𝖾𝘭 𝗈ո 𝘣е.𝗰𝗼m
“You look…” he started, then stopped. “Aggressive p>
“I look expensive,” Skye corrected. “Which is what you paid for p>
The car pulled up to the Metropolitan Museum. The flashes started before the door even opened. It was a strobe-light nightmare.
“Smile,” Liam hissed.
He grabbed her waist. His fingers dug into the velvet, pulling her flush against his side. It was a possessive grip, too tight to be affectionate, but to the cameras, it looked like passion.
Skye leaned into him. She rested her hand on his chest, right over his heart, which was beating faster than it should. She looked up at him with adoring eyes.
“Don’t trip,” she whispered through her frozen smile. “It would be a shame to ruin your suit p>
“Shut up,” Liam whispered back, kissing her temple. “Just look at the cameras p>
They walked the red carpet. It was a dance of deception. Every touch was a lie, every smile a calculation.
“Mrs. Kensington! About the club!” a reporter shouted.
Liam stopped. He pulled Skye closer. He looked directly into the camera lens with his million-dollar CEO smile.