The flight back to Ashbourne was scheduled for just after
ten. Elara had arrived with a single suitcase, but she was returning laden with
gifts from a doting Ingrid, plus a few carefully wrapped items Chloe had asked
her to deliver.
With Silas absent, Ben was her shadow, his presence a silent
promise of protection. Julian, as the sole son of the Thorne patriarch, had no
choice but to return for the obligatory family gathering.
After a quiet breakfast, Ingrid saw the three of them off in
a car bound for Ashbourne International Airport.
As soon as they arrived, Elara pulled out her phone.
Elara: [Boarding my flight back to Ashbourne now.]
She stared at the screen, waiting for the familiar three
dots to appear. None came. Even thirty minutes later, as the plane taxied for
takeoff, her phone remained stubbornly silent.
He must be on his own flight back, she reasoned, slipping an
eye mask over her face. But sleep was a restless escape. Her body felt heavy,
her dreams fragmented and feverish, leaving her more drained than rested.
Meanwhile, in an Italian Hospital
The sterile white lights of the hallway glared down on
Ethan. His clothes, once soaked through from the storm, had dried stiff and
stained. He stood like a statue outside the operating theatre, his young face a
mask of grim regret.
Behind him, a handful of men mirrored his stance. Some had
bandages wrapped around arms or legs, but they were oblivious to their own
pain. Every ounce of their focus was fixed on the sealed doors, their silence
louder than any prayer.
A biting early-February wind greeted them as they stepped
onto the tarmac in Ashbourne. Elara pulled her dark brown coat tighter, the
chill seeping deep into her bones.
The Thorne family car was waiting. The drive to the
ancestral estate was tense and quiet. By nearly two o'clock, the car crunched
to a halt in the vast courtyard.
Three unfamiliar cars were already parked there—collateral
branches of the family had arrived early. Without Silas by her side, facing
this lion's den alone felt like walking into a battle armed with nothing but a
whisper.
A servant took her luggage up to Silas's room. Ben, his
baby-faced features set in a cold, unreadable expression, stayed close behind
her.
Julian casually brushed dust from his coat, his dark eyes
flicking toward Elara. He noticed the subtle, nervous way she pinched her
earlobe. The habit hadn't changed.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. He wanted to grab her and
tell her to run—to get as far away from this house as possible. Because
tomorrow, during the ancestral rites, her name would be inscribed in the Thorne
family registry. Written beside his father's. The label of stepmother and
stepson would be carved in stone, irrevocable.
Unless the day came when he was no longer a Thorne.
Oblivious to his turmoil, Elara took a deep, fortifying
breath and stepped through the imposing main door.
As Ben passed Julian, he spoke in a low, deliberate voice
meant only for him. "Young Master Julian. A message from Mr. Thorne: 'Mrs.
Thorne is your stepmother. In my absence, you will support her. Do not let
outsiders mock this family.'"
Julian froze, his gaze locking onto Ben's retreating back—so
loyal, so unquestioning, just like he was with his father.
A dark, unfathomable storm gathered in his eyes.
So, this is how you protect her? he thought, a cold sneer
twisting his lips. You leave your guard dog to issue warnings, afraid she might
be slighted in your absence.
He had never imagined his aloof, emotionally detached father
could be so… tender toward a woman.
Did he ever treat my mother with such care?
Or is this a special treatment reserved only for Elara?
The drawing room was a vision of opulent Victorian elegance.
The silver-haired Old Lady Thorne, resplendent in her finery, held court from
her throne-like chair, surrounded by chattering female relatives. Her smile was
radiant, but it vanished the moment the newcomers entered.
The conversation died abruptly. All eyes turned to them, recognising
only Julian. With Ben hanging back, it appeared as if Elara and Julian had
arrived together.
A woman a decade younger than Old Lady Thorne beamed.
"Julian! More handsome every year. You'll be taking over from your father
in no time." Her gaze then slid to Elara, teasing. "And is this your
girlfriend? She's lovely! You must send your great-aunt an invitation to the
wedding!"
The temperature in the room plummeted. Old Lady Thorne's
face darkened. "What nonsense!" she snapped, her voice dripping with
disdain. "Julian has no such girlfriend."
The woman gasped, looking confusedly between Julian and
Elara.
Elara met her gaze squarely, her voice calm and clear,
cutting through the tension. "There's been a misunderstanding. My name is
Elara Thorne. I am Silas Thorne's wife."
A stunned silence fell. Jaws went slack. They had heard
whispers of a secret marriage, but the reality was a shock. She was so young.
The woman recovered quickly, fluttering a hand. "Oh, my
eyesight! Forgive an old woman." She laughed it off, but the damage was
done.
Elara offered a thin, polite smile.
"Grandmother," she continued, turning to the
matriarch. "Silas asked me to tell you he's handling business abroad.
He'll return this evening."
"Mm," Old Lady Thorne grunted, her expression
stony. She was about to dismiss her when Julian stepped forward.
"Mum," he said, his voice deliberate as he
gestured around the room. "Allow me to introduce everyone. This is your
great-aunt..." He proceeded to name each relative, his tone formal.
Elara's pulse quickened at the address, but she played
along, nodding and greeting each person with a composed smile.
The women exchanged knowing glances. The matriarch's
hostility was unmistakable. Soon, they made excuses to retire to their guest
rooms.
Once they were alone, the manufactured warmth evaporated
from the drawing room. Old Lady Thorne's gaze, sharp as shattered glass, pinned
Elara in place.
"Let us understand one another, girl," the old
woman began, her voice deceptively quiet but laced with a lifetime of
authority. "You may wear my grandson's ring, but that grants you a title,
not a position. You will conduct yourself with the discretion your… situation
demands. That means you will stay away from Julian. Must you constantly remind
everyone that you were once trailing after my great-grandson before you
convinced his father to marry you? Have you no sense of decorum, or is shame
simply a foreign concept to you?"
Elara took a slow, measured breath, keeping her posture
perfectly composed. She met the matriarch's glare not with fire, but with an
unshakeable, cool calm.
"With all due respect, Grandmother," Elara
replied, her tone respectful yet unwavering, "it is you who seems
determined to keep that history at the forefront of everyone's mind. I, for
one, have chosen to focus on the present. The only breach of decorum I'm aware
of is the one that resulted in Vivian Grays's pregnancy. I assume she will be
welcomed into the family with the grace befitting the mother of your
great-great-grandchild?"
She took a single, deliberate step forward, her voice
softening into a polite, yet steely, whisper that carried absolute conviction.
"My marriage to Silas was a mutual decision, free from the opinions of
others. But since my proximity to Julian causes you such distress, I feel
obligated to find a solution. I will suggest to Silas that an extended academic
program abroad might be beneficial for his son. Would that provide you with the
peace of mind you deserve? It would certainly satisfy the distance you seem to
require."
"You—!" Old Lady Thorne choked on her fury, her
face flushing a mottled, dangerous purple. She trembled, a palpable desire to
shatter Elara's infuriating composure written in her eyes. But her gaze snagged
on the imposing figure of Ben standing silently behind Elara—a cold-eyed
sentinel and a stark reminder of the son whose authority she could not openly
challenge.
With a sound of pure, frustrated outrage, she whipped
around. "We are done here," she spat, leaning heavily on her
servant's arm as she stormed upstairs. That foolish Julian was just as bad,
introducing her with such formality—he had clearly done it to mock her!
The grand room fell into a heavy silence, the echoes of the
confrontation still hanging in the air. Elara let out a shaky breath she hadn't
realised she'd been holding, the adrenaline fading and leaving a profound
weariness in its wake. She murmured a quiet thanks to Ben and, without granting
Julian a single glance—she couldn't handle whatever complex emotion she'd find
in his eyes—she turned and retreated toward the stairs.
Each step upward felt like a effort. The beginnings of a
dull headache, born from stress and sleepless nights, began to throb at her
temples. By the time she reached the door to Silas's room, the weight of the
day had settled deep into her bones.
She collapsed onto the large, empty bed, surrounded by her
unpacked luggage. The silence of the room was oppressive. Closing her eyes, she
breathed in the faint, lingering scent of Silas's cologne on the pillows. A
desperate longing clenched in her chest. All she wanted was to close her eyes
and wake up to find him home, his solid presence banishing the shadows and the
scheming.
She didn't know how long she slept, her slumber a black,
dreamless void. She was dragged from its depths by a soft, yet insistently
sharp, knocking at the door.
The thudding in her head had solidified into a full,
pounding headache. For a disoriented second, her heart leaped. Silas!
Remembering she'd locked the door, she scrambled out of bed,
the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through her skull. She pulled the
door open.
Her face fell instantly, the hopeful light extinguished and
replaced by wary alarm. "What are you doing here?"
She moved to shut the door, but Julian was faster. His hand
shot out, his palm slamming against the wood, holding it open with effortless
strength.