The final frame froze under Ethan's thumb. He leaned back, plunging the screen into darkness as his arm lazily blocked the doorway. "Sorry about this, Miss Hayes," he said, a hint of suppressed amusement dancing in his eyes despite his innocent expression. "You're stuck here for now. Boss's orders." He gave an easy shrug, slouching comfortably against the doorframe, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "What can I say? That's just the job."
Elara's jaw clenched, the metallic tang of panic sharp on her tongue. She whirled, making a desperate bolt for the suite's entrance. Behind her, Ethan's low chuckle curled like smoke as he rose slowly, a predator savouring the chase.
Her fingers closed on the cool brass handle – Let me out. Set me free – the plea a live wire sizzling under her skin as she wrenched it down. The deadbolt's electronic thunk from the other side turned her blood to ice. She snatched her hand back, palm stinging as if scalded, and stumbled backward just as the door swept inward.
He filled the doorway. Silas Thorne, wrapped in the severe lines of a black suit, stepped through. His glacial gaze swept over Elara, poised like a cornered animal in the foyer. Not a flicker of surprise. Not a hint of warmth touched his sculpted features. He simply stopped, peeled off his leather gloves with deliberate, almost ritualistic precision, and tossed them onto a side table.
"Ethan." The single word cracked through the air, a command that brooked no delay. "Leave. Now."
"See you around, Miss Hayes," Ethan sang, brushing past Elara with a mocking salute. She kept her gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the rug beneath her feet. Never again.
The soft snick of the door closing sealed them in. The silence was absolute, suffocating, broken only by the frantic drumming of Elara's own heart against her ribs.
"Come. Sit." Silas moved past her towards the sitting area, his voice a low, resonant rumble.
"No, Mr. Thorne." The title slipped out like armour—cold, polished, deliberately distant. She held her ground, her voice taut with forced neutrality. "Whatever you have to say, say it here. It's late. Julian is expecting my call."
Again with the wall. Again with his son's name between them.
Silas turned, slow as a blade unsheathing. His gaze dissected her—every flinch, every guarded breath—and found only the rigid posture of a woman addressing her boyfriend's father. "Elara." Her name was a low warning, velvet over steel. "When you wield that name like a shield, you remind me of a title I never asked for." Frost crept into his stillness. "Enough."
Elara met his stare, defiance warring with the terror coiling in her stomach. "How else do I draw the line, Mr. Thorne?" The question hung, raw and desperate.
He watched the stubborn set of her jaw, the fear she couldn't quite mask. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a rare flicker of something like weariness crossing his features before the mask of implacable authority slammed back down. When his gaze locked onto hers again, it was pure, unforgiving ice.
"You and Julian are incompatible. Find a time. End it with dignity, Elara. Soon."
The words hit like a physical blow. Shock stole her breath, then ignited a white-hot fury. "Is that why you kept him back tonight?" she spat, taking an involuntary step forward, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "To poison him against me?"
"No." His answer was clipped, a stone wall offering no handhold. He turned away, his focus shifting to the meticulous task of unbuttoning his suit jacket. He shrugged it off, then began on the cuffs of his pristine white shirt, movements unhurried, infuriatingly controlled.
His calm detachment stoked her anger higher. She stalked after him, the space between them crackling. "Then why?" The word ripped from her, raw and demanding. "What makes me unfit for Julian? My background? Or..." Her breath hitched, the suffocating secret clawing its way up. "...is it because we slept together?"
The air froze solid. Silas's hands stilled on his cufflink. He turned, a slow, deliberate pivot that brought him towering over her. His gaze raked her face – the flushed skin, the furious sheen in her eyes, the tremor she couldn't suppress. It lingered, then sharpened, on the faint, powdery trace near her temple.
Deep scratches. Poorly hidden.
He reached out. Elara flinched, but his hand closed firmly on the side of her face, his thumb probing the concealed marks. The touch was clinical, invasive, yet held a weary recognition of the damage. "You haven't told him about that night." The low thrum held certainty, the threat simmering beneath the observation. His thumb pressed, testing the depth. A faint sigh escaped him—bleak understanding, not remorse. "Deep." His eyes met hers, acknowledging the toll. "Foolish, burying it. This wound will fester." The final words snapped the threat back into place.
His touch, his proximity, his casual cruelty – terror lanced through her, freezing her lungs. "That's between Julian and me," she managed, her voice thin, strained. "None of your concern." She slapped weakly at his wrist.
He caught her hand effortlessly, his grip like forged steel. He bent, closing the distance until his face was mere inches from hers. His dark eyes, narrowed and intense, held hers captive. "How is it not my concern?" The velvet-wrapped blade twisted deeper. "Your silence confesses you grasp the price. So pay it. Maintain this fiction. Eternally." He paused, letting the icy dread seep into her bones. "Or would you prefer Julian learns the truth? That his father warmed your bed?"
The blood drained from Elara's face. The world tilted, reality crashing down. Honesty with Julian was now an abyss. The path ahead was only darkness and thorns.
"What reasons," she asked, her voice unnervingly calm—a brittle shell over the storm within—"am I supposed to break up with him?" Red-rimmed eyes burned in a pale, fiercely composed face.
A flicker of surprise, sharp and unexpected, crossed Silas's features. He released her wrist, the skin visibly marked and flushed from his grip, and took a deliberate step back, reclaiming distance like armour.
"Mr. Thorne." The title splintered like ice. "That night... you could have stopped me. You chose not to." Her gaze locked onto his, raw accusation blazing. "Why should I wield the knife? You tell him. Tell your precious son to leave me alone. Protect your perfect paternal image yourself." Her voice rose, edged with bitter venom. "What script did you write? 'Sorry, Julian, I found someone else... It was your father. Shall we call it quits?'"
She stood, small but incandescent, a single flame defiant against the encroaching darkness.
Silas watched her impassively throughout the tirade, the fire in her eyes, the desperate heaving of her chest. When the echo of her last, scathing words faded into the heavy silence, he spoke. His voice was unexpectedly stripped of its previous edge, almost... measured.
"You're right."
Elara blinked, thrown violently off balance. Right?
"I apologise." The words were crisp, deliberate, landing with the weight of an anvil. "I... underestimated the untenable position my demand placed you in." He acknowledged the fault, a concession more unsettling than any rage. "My approach was... flawed." He straightened, releasing an invisible tension. "A different method is essential. Immediate pain will cauterise this far more effectively than letting the wound fester."
His cryptic words hung, cold and ominous, in the charged air. Before she could begin to decipher them, he added, "Go home. Since you'd refuse Ethan's escort, I'll have him send a car." He turned, retrieving his phone from his coat pocket with efficient movements. "Consider tonight's... demand withdrawn. For now."
He began dialling, his profile stark against the window, as he rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt, revealing the strong, defined lines of his forearms. Elara stared, numb, her mind reeling.
An apology? Withdrawn… for now? What did he mean? What's he going to do next?
Ethan reappeared, his mocking grin firmly in place, and efficiently ushered her out. Only when the taxi pulled away from the glittering, monstrous facade of the hotel, the city lights blurring into meaningless streaks, did the full, crushing weight descend. Silas Thorne's cold command, his chilling apology, his veiled threat, and the terrifying ambiguity of his final words – they churned in her head, a maelstrom with Julian's trusting, oblivious face at its terrifying centre. The silence of the car was deafening, filled only by the phantom echo of Silas's voice and the suffocating dread of a reckoning yet to come.