The vintage green Rolls-Royce was barely past the gates when Julian's sleek Mercedes slid to a stop before Rosewood Peak Villa. Silas Thorne remained motionless on the steps, an imposing silhouette against the grand entrance. It had been nearly a year since Julian last visited, and he'd called ahead, hoping the gesture would be seen as thoughtful, not needy. Ethan must have borrowed the Rolls for an errand, Julian reasoned, pushing open his car door. A hopeful smile broke across his face— the instinctive reaction of a son perpetually seeking a farther's warmth from a man carved from ice. He needed this. Needed Silas to see he was ready.
"Dad!"
Silas's gaze swept over his son — the familiar handsome features, the youthful energy barely contained. His own expression remained granite, unreadable, assessing Julian against the invisible, exacting standard only he held. "You're here," he acknowledged, inclining his head towards the open villa doors. "Go on in."
"Sure, Dad." Julian forced the eagerness down, cloaking it in careful neutrality. But as he stepped forward, his eyes snagged. There, stark against the tanned column of Silas's throat, was a fresh, live bite mark.
Julian froze mid-step. His stare locked onto the mark, then flicked to his father's retreating back — clad only in a causal robe, an intimacy Julian had never witnessed. The image of the shadowed passenger in the departing Rolls slammed back into his mind. A woman. Put into the care by Silas himself. A cold wave of disbelief washed over him. His father, the famously untouchable Silas Thorne, never brought women home. Never wore their marks so blatantly. A heavy tension settled in his chest — the vast, enigmatic gulf between Silas Thorne's world and his own, a gulf Julian desperately needed to cross. To inherit this, he had to understand it. Had to be deemed worthy.
Inside the cavernous living room, the air crackled. Pleasantries were exchanged, brittle as ice. Silas inquired about the Ashbourne project Julian had managed. Julian answered mechanically, acutely aware this foundation stone was merely the first test, far from the pinnacle he craved. Silence descended, thick and suffocating.
"Dad…" Julian finally broke it, his voice tight with suppressed ambition. "I've been in Ashbourne nearly a year. When can I move to Oakhaven? I want to learn from you. Properly." Be part of your world. Be your true heir. The unspoken plea hung heavy.
Silas sipped his tea, the clink of porcelain echoing. He met Julian's hopeful gaze, his own eyes fathomless. "Ashbourne is the foundation, Julian. Prove you can stand alone there, pass my assessment… then we'll talk." His tone was final, a familiar barrier erected between aspiration and attainment. The assessment was perpetual, the proving ground never-ending.
Julian's heart plummeted. Rejected. Again. First after university, exiled to the bottom rung, now this. The gulf between his father's global empire and his own provincial efforts yawned wide, humiliating. Why was he never enough? What fundamental thing did he lack that kept his father perpetually at arm's length? He thought of Elara, her quiet acceptance, the way she simply say him, not the heir-apparent or the disappointment. She was his sanctuary from this relentless cold.
Silas watched the disappointment shutter Julian's face, his own expression revealing nothing. A beat of silence stretched, then: "Ashbourne seems to agree with you." His voice was flat, observational rather than approving. "You've settled in."
Julian stiffened slightly. Settled in? Was it a veiled probe? He thought instantly of Elara, the secret warmth of their love — a warmth that felt like his, separate from the cold weight of Thorne expectations. "It's… manageable," he offered cautiously, keeping his gaze level. "Different pace."
"Hmm." Silas set his cup down with deliberate precision, crossing his long legs. The movement radiated controlled power, a subtle reminder of the throne Julian coveted. "Focus remains essential. Distractions are costly." His gaze sharpened, becoming unnervingly direct. "Speaking of distractions… is there someone? In Ashbourne?"
The question hit Julian like a physical blow. He fought to keep his expression neutral, his pulse hammering. He knows? How? But Silas's face revealed nothing — only cool assessment. Julian swallowed, choosing his words with care. "There is… someone. It's serious." He held his father's gaze, bracing for interrogation.
Silas's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Serious?" The word hung between them, heavy with implication. "Define serious."
"Committed," Julian stated firmly, the image of Elara's smile strengthening his resolve. "Long-term intentions."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Silas's eyes— too fast to decipher. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Intentions require stability. Resources. Have you secured either?" The question wasn't just about the relationship; it was a pointed assessment of Julian's readiness for the burden of anything beyond the prescribed path.
The dismissal stung. Julian's spine straightened defensively. "I'm building both. This isn't a passing phase."
"See that it isn't," Silas replied, his tone glacial. "Sentiment is a luxury few can afford. Especially Thornes." He waved a dismissive hand. "Go. Your 'early start' awaits."
Relief washed over Julian, cold and sudden. It lacked the joy he'd expected. He's shielded Elara's identity, but the victory felt hollow. Why hadn't his father pressed for details? Why this chilling indifference? Was his personal life truly so insignificant? The questions gnawed at him as he walked back to his car, the imposing silhouette of Rosewood Peak shrinking in his rear view mirror — a fortress he both longed for and feared he'd never truly possess.
Alone, the silence pressed in on Silas. His fingers brushed the bite mark on his throat absently, a phantom sensation of sharp teeth and raw defiance flashing in his mind — her defiance. His phone buzzed, shattering the stillness. He snatched it up, the movement abrupt.
"Mr. Throne," Ethan's voice, laced with amused frustration, came through. "Your little dove is very skittish."
"Did you take her home?" Silas's voice was low, controlled, but a thread of something alive – irritation, interest – vibrated beneath the surface, starkly absent moments before with Julian.
"Tried. But she insisted on being dropped at the Rosewood bus stop. I watched her get on the bus, though." Ethan paused, the smirk audible. "Bad news, sir. That business card with your private number? And the special ointment? I saw her toss them straight into a public bin. Didn't even blink."
Silas's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking. His private number – a prize sought by empires – discarded like trash. The ointment, formulated for scars... rejected. A hot spike of pure, unadulterated irritation, sharp and unfamiliar, lanced through him, obliterating the detached calm he'd maintained during Julian's visit. She rejected him. Utterly. Dared to.
"Feeling brave, Ethan?" Silas's voice dropped to a dangerous purr, the sound vibrating with controlled fury.
Ethan's chuckle died instantly. "Just reporting, sir!"
"Wait." Ice coated the word, colder and far more focused than anything directed at Julian. This mattered. Intensely. "Find out who Julian's dating.. Everything. Leave no stone unturned." The command was absolute, consuming.
"On it." Ethan's tone was instantly professional.
Silas ended the call, throwing the phone onto the sofa beside him with a force that cracked the veneer of his composure. The image of her wide, frightened eyes flashed unbidden – her defiance, her shame, the way she'd flinched from his touch yet left her mark. Ungrateful little... He cut the thought off, a fresh wave of restless anger surging, a possessive heat eclipsing all else. She didn't know what she'd thrown away. She had no idea. And Silas Thorne intended to ensure she learned. Julian's vague confession about a "serious" someone in Ashbourne was already forgotten, a whisper lost in the sudden, roaring intensity of Silas's focus on the woman who had dared to bite him and vanish.