The clock was pushing eleven by the time the Winslow estate's gates
swung shut behind them. A deep, weary exhaustion clung to Elara, the kind that
made her bones feel heavy. Pregnancy had turned her into a creature of sleep,
and all she could think about was the cool embrace of her pillows.
She had barely taken two steps toward the grand staircase when the
distinct trill of a video call echoed from her handbag. Her heart gave a little
leap. Silas.
Fumbling with a sudden, eager urgency, she dug out her phone. His name
flashed on the screen. A smile touched her lips before she could even think to
stop it, and she accepted the call without hesitation.
It was only when she raised the phone that she remembered her audience.
Ingrid stood nearby, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. Elara felt a hot
flush creep up her neck. She quickly tucked a stray strand of hair behind her
ear, suddenly self-conscious.
"My darling, why aren't you asleep yet?" Silas's voice, a deep, magnetic
rumble, filled the quiet foyer, audible to all.
Ingrid didn't miss a beat. She chuckled, the sound warm and mischievous.
"You silly man, if she were asleep, how could she answer your call?"
Elara's ears burned crimson. The phone felt suddenly scorching in her
palm. Flustered, she flipped the camera toward Ingrid, clearing her throat.
"Everyone's here. Say hello."
On the screen, Silas was framed against the backdrop of a luxurious
hotel room, the glittering skyline of an Italian city sprawled behind him. He
wore a simple black high-necked jumper that accentuated the sharp, refined
planes of his face, making him look both austere and devastatingly handsome.
His gaze briefly scanned the group—Ingrid, Arthur, and a brooding Julian
lingering in the background—noting the absence of the one person he'd called
for.
"Ingrid," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Arrange for
someone to take Elara back to Ashbourne tomorrow. I'll fly directly back from
Italy."
"Of course," Ingrid nodded, understanding. The Thorne family gathering
was on the 15th; Silas would want his wife by his side. She and Arthur had long
since retired from such functions.
"Well then," Ingrid said, taking Arthur's arm. "We'll leave you two to
talk. These old bones need their rest." She shot a final, gentle smile at Elara
before leading her husband toward their wing of the estate. A maid had already
carried a sleeping Annabelle inside.
Julian's dark, hollow gaze lingered on Elara for a moment—on the way she
clutched the phone, on the blush still staining her cheeks. A wave of
deep-seated resentment, cold and familiar, washed over him. Without a word, he
turned on his heel and strode away, disappearing into the shadows of the house.
Finally alone in the sanctuary of her bedroom, Elara collapsed onto the
plush sofa and finally looked at the man on her screen. He was reclining
patiently, his intense dark eyes fixed solely on her. A faint, almost
imperceptible smile played on his lips, but his gaze was searing.
"What?" she asked, her cheeks heating under his scrutiny. She
instinctively brought a hand up to cover them. "Why are you looking at me like
that?"
"You look breathtaking tonight," he said, his praise direct and
unwavering. "That crimson red was made for you."
It was different from her usual elegant style. Tonight, she had been
vibrant, a little flamboyant—a perfect blend of innocent charm and radiant
elegance. A unique beauty entirely her own.
"Thank you," she murmured, lowering her hand, an involuntary smile
gracing her lips. His compliment meant more than all the hollow flattery she'd
heard all evening. "Is your business finished?"
She pulled a cushion to her chest, hugging it as she talked to him, a
quiet intimacy settling over them despite the miles between them.
Silas's eyes traced the delicate lines of her face. "I'll be on a plane
back to Ashbourne tomorrow. You'll see me the moment you get home."
"That's great." A weight she hadn't fully acknowledged lifted from her
shoulders. His expression was relaxed; whatever business had taken him to Italy
was clearly concluded.
She launched into a story about the charity dinner, her voice bright
with a thrill he rarely heard. She told him about the people she'd met with
Ingrid, and the oil painting she'd bid on for over ten million.
Listening to her, Silas's stern features softened. "Next time," he said,
his voice a soft murmur, "I'll be there with you." He should have been there
for her first official appearance in Oakhaven's social circles. It was his
place. His duty. His privilege.
"Mhm," she hummed, warmed by his tenderness.
But his kindness also brought a pang of guilt. The image of Steven Cohen
flashed in her mind, his poisonous words echoing in her ears. Elora Cohen. To
say it didn't bother her would be a lie. What woman would want to be a living
echo of her husband's past? Even a similar name felt like a betrayal.
She had resolved to wait until he was home, to have this conversation
face-to-face. She wouldn't bury this; she would confront it. Steven's malicious
intent was clear, and she wouldn't let his seeds of doubt grow in the dark.
But Silas had always been perceptive. A master at reading the subtle
shifts in her mood.
"What is it?" his deep voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back
to the present. "There's something you want to say."
The directness of his question startled her. She hesitated for a beat,
then sighed softly. "I was going to wait until you got back…" But she knew she
couldn't hide it from him. Since he'd asked, she might as well rip the bandage
off now.
On screen, Silas relaxed his posture, lit a cigarette, and prepared to
listen, his patient silence urging her on.
"Tonight, on the cruise ship… I ran into Julian's uncle. Steven Cohen."
The change in him was instantaneous. Before the cigarette could even
reach his lips, he stubbed it out. A visible coldness settled over his
features. "He approached you?"
Elara nodded, her voice growing quieter. "He said… things. That I'm too
young. That you can't give me children. He asked what I could possibly gain by
being with you."
A dangerous glint flashed in Silas's dark eyes. "Go on," he commanded,
his voice low and tight.
"I didn't engage with him," she said, quickly glossing over her own
sharp retort to Steven. She took a shaky breath. "Then he asked if I knew who
Julian's mother was. What her name was. I told him I didn't know and I didn't
care to know. But he insisted on telling me."
She paused, watching his face. She saw his expression shutter, turning
to ice. A chill seemed to radiate from him through the screen.
Her heart clenched. She tried to sound light, dismissive. "He obviously
has an agenda. He's trying to poison us against each other. That whole 'tragic
stand-in' trope is so cliché. I don't believe a word of it."
Silas's chest rose and fell in a heavy, controlled rhythm. He leaned
closer to the camera, his gaze intense enough to pin her in place. "You truly
don't believe him?"
The question felt loaded. Instead of answering, she turned it back on
him, her voice barely a whisper. "Is it true? Was her name… similar to mine?"
The answer was delivered with detached finality. "Her name was Elora
Cohen."
"...Oh." The single syllable was heavy with a bitter ache. So it was
true. The cliché was real. Was her life some terrible romance novel? First his
son, now this? Was she just a replacement?
"What," Silas's voice was like a shard of ice, piercing through her spiralling
thoughts, "is real?"
She took a deep, steadying breath, meeting his piercing gaze head-on.
There was no turning back now. She blurted it out in one rushed, painful
sentence: "He said you're still obsessed with her. That you even married a
woman with a similar name. That to you, I'm nothing but a substitute."
The words hung in the air, charged and terrible.
For a long moment, Silas was silent. Then a derisive, icy snort broke
the tension. "His penchant for petty, manipulative tricks remains utterly
unchanged."