The call was still connected, but Elara's mind was reeling. Silas's
cryptic claim echoed in her ears. What does that mean?
Was Steven Cohen's entire story a lie? Was she not just a convenient
stand-in after all?
Or, more chillingly, did Steven deliberately reveal that twisted
narrative to poison her mind against Silas?
Elara pulled a cushion onto her lap, burying her fingers in its soft
fabric. She rested her chin on it, a feeble attempt to ground herself. Her
thick, curled lashes dipped low, veiling the storm of confusion in her eyes
from the man on the screen.
"Elly…"
Silas's voice, a low rumble, pulled her from her thoughts. He watched
her retreat into herself like a frightened turtle pulling into its shell.
She hummed a non-committal response, forcing her gaze to meet his. The
intensity in his somber eyes was almost too much to bear.
"Do you believe what he said?" he asked, for the second time
that night.
The first time, he'd deftly changed the subject. This time, the question
hung heavy between them, demanding an answer. Elara was silent for a long
moment, choosing her words with care.
"You keep asking if I believe him," she began softly,
"but maybe the real question is for you. Is any of it true? A man who's
remained unmarried for years suddenly weds a woman whose name is a haunting
echo of another's..." Her voice trailed off. The image of Elora Cohen's
preserved dresses at the Rosewood Mountain Villa flashed in her mind. "You
kept her things. You can barely speak of her without that shadow in your eyes.
How could anyone not wonder?"
A low, impatient sound escaped Silas. His brow, once furrowed, smoothed
as a look of sheer exasperation crossed his features. "You think I married
you just because of a name?"
He leaned closer to the camera, his presence dominating the screen.
"What's growing inside you right now—have you forgotten how that happened?
On the night we were together, do you think I had some crystal ball? That I
knew your name before I knew the feel of you?"
Elara's cheeks flushed. Of course she hadn't forgotten. She watched him
stand and pour a glass of water, his movements fluid and controlled. "I
found out your name soon after," she muttered, almost to herself.
"Then we had the baby, and the name similarity… it just seemed like a
convenient fit for a narrative."
This time, a genuine, deep chuckle escaped him. He set the glass down
with a soft thud and fixed her with a stare that made her want to look away.
"Elara, if I truly wanted a stand-in, I wouldn't have waited all these
years for a vaguely similar name. I would have found a woman and paid a surgeon
to make her a perfect replica. It would have been far less complicated."
"..." Elara's defiance crumbled. She fluttered her lashes,
offering a sheepish, pleading smile. "Okay, fine. I didn't believe him.
Not really. It was so obviously an attempt to drive us apart. Did I look like I
was falling for it?"
Seeing her desperate attempt to backtrack, Silas felt a mix of amusement
and tenderness. "I hope you didn't. His words… I feared they might taint
what you feel for me."
He sighed, the admission leaving him vulnerable. That was the core of
his fear.
Elara's breath hitched. What she felt for him? She was still untangling
that knot herself. But then, his face filled the screen again, his chiselled
features drawing closer. His eyes, deep and luminous, held hers captive.
"Elly, listen to me," he said, his voice dropping to an
intimate murmur. "I will only say this once. There is no stand-in. Elora
Cohen was Elora Cohen, and you are Elara Thorne. You are two entirely different
women—in face, in spirit, in the very essence of who you are."
"There is no lingering attachment. What I felt for her was not what
you think." He paused, his gaze searing into her. "But there is
another woman who occupies my mind. One who haunts my dreams…"
He stopped, the unspoken words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning.
After their night together, she had indeed slipped into his dreams like a
persistent, welcome ghost.
Elara's heart, which had been pounding a wild rhythm, stuttered.
"...Who?" she breathed out, the question a fragile thing.
A helpless, tender smile touched his lips. "Far away in the
heavens, yet so frustratingly close at hand." He shook his head slightly,
as if surprised by his own sentiment. "Who else could it be but you, my
little fool?"
For the first time, Elara saw a flicker of uncertainty in his usually
unshakeable confidence. The raw honesty in his admission made her chest ache.
Her cheeks burned. She dropped her gaze, her long lashes casting shadows
on her skin. His blunt confession had shattered her defences, leaving her
speechless.
"And you?" he pressed, his voice a soft, magnetic caress.
"Do you miss me? Sweetheart."
The endearment, spoken in his deep baritone, sent a shiver down her
spine. She opened her mouth, her lips parting to form an answer she wasn't even
sure of, when a sharp knock fractured the moment.
"Boss, we need to leave—"
The door swung open, and Ethan stepped in, freezing mid-sentence as he
found himself pinned by two pairs of eyes—one blazing with icy fury, the other
wide with startled embarrassment.
Ethan blinked. Had he just walked in on… a love confession? Oh, hell.
"My apologies! I'll, uh… wait outside." He backpedaled
swiftly, slamming the door shut as if escaping a fire.
The spell was broken. Silas drew a deep, frustrated breath, the
tenderness in his eyes replaced by grim resignation.
Seizing the opportunity to escape the intense emotional spotlight, Elara
quickly said, "You should go. Ethan wouldn't interrupt if it wasn't
important. I'm tired anyway, and I have to go back to Ashbourne tomorrow."
She offered a soft smile. "I'll be waiting for you there."
It was late. Seeing the weariness finally cloud her eyes, Silas nodded.
"Get some rest. Take care of yourself, Elly."
The screen went dark. Elara fell back onto the oversized bed, covering
her face with her hands. The silence of the room pressed in on her. These past
few nights, the bed had felt impossibly large and empty. She would drift off
only to wake in the deep night, her thoughts instinctively reaching for him
across the miles.
So, yes. She did miss him.
But was this… this feeling… developing too fast? Her mind was a tangled
mess of hope and fear, and it took a long time for sleep to finally claim her.
Italy
The leaden grey sky finally broke, unleashing a torrential downpour that
hammered against the jeep's roof. The vehicle, caked in dust, sped along the
winding coastal highway toward the airport, its pace slowing as the storm
intensified. Three unassuming sedans followed at a discreet distance.
In the driver's seat, Ethan's knuckles were white on the steering wheel,
his gaze laser-focused as he fought for visibility. The windscreen wipers
slapped back and forth in a frantic rhythm, struggling to clear the sheets of
rain.
In the back, Silas was a portrait of grim concentration, reviewing
documents, his jaw set.
As they rounded a sharp bend, a pair of high-beam headlights speared
through the murk. It wasn't just another car—it was a weapon.
"Boss, hold on!" Ethan yelled, but it was too late.
With a deafening roar of twisted metal and shattering glass, a black
sedan slammed head-on into them. The jeep shuddered violently, the force of the
impact throwing them against their seatbelts.
"Boss, get out! Now!" Ethan shouted, shaking off the daze. In
one fluid motion, he drew his pistol, his expression hardening into a mask of
combat.
Silas was already moving, his door flying open. He rolled out onto the
rain-slicked asphalt, the cold water instantly soaking through his clothes. As
he scrambled for cover behind the wrecked jeep, he wiped the stinging rain from
his eyes and assessed the nightmare.
A line of black vehicles blocked the road ahead. From them, a small army
of armed figures in black swarmed forward, their guns raised. The night erupted
not with the clap of thunder, but with the sickening, muffled pops of
suppressed gunfire.
From the trailing sedans, Silas's bodyguards erupted with practiced
precision. They split into two teams—one laying down covering fire, the other
rushing to form a protective cordon around Silas.
But the location was a death trap. The road was exposed, the barrier to
the sea too high for a quick escape, the rocks below a fatal drop. Pinned
behind the bullet-riddled cars, the two groups were locked in a deadly
exchange.
The relentless rain drowned the shouts and the gunfire, washing the
blood that seeped from fallen men across the pavement in pale, pink rivulets.
The attackers' excited, taunting cries mixed with the agonised groans of the
wounded, creating a symphony of violence under the stormy Italian sky. The
danger was far from over.