The heavy door to Silas's bedchamber was almost shut when a
hand, taut with suppressed energy, slammed against the dark wood, stopping it
dead. Elara's gaze travelled from the offending hand up to Julian's face. His
dark eyes burned with an intensity that made her own narrow into slits of pure
suspicion.
"Relax, Elara," he murmured, the words dripping with
mockery. "I just want to talk."
Her knuckles turned white where she gripped the door. "We
have nothing to discuss. This is your father's private room. Know your place."
She infused her voice with an arctic chill, a shield forged from necessity.
"The Old Lady Thorne has spies in every shadow. If you crave drama, fine. But
don't drag your father's peace into it."
He didn't yield, his shoulder braced against the doorframe,
invading the space that was no longer his. A smirk, both dangerous and
familiar, twisted his lips. "If you're so worried about gossip, then step into
the light. A public conversation. Unless you're afraid of what might be said?"
His challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown. Elara's
eyes flickered past him, down the long, shadow-draped corridor. Refusing him
would only make him more persistent, more dangerous. She met his gaze again,
her chin lifting in defiance.
"Fine," she conceded, the word sharp. "Release the door.
Have tea brought to the third-floor sitting room. I'll join you shortly."
Julian's eyes scanned her face, a predator looking for fear.
"You know how I get when I'm kept waiting, Elly," he said, his voice dropping
to a intimate threat. "Don't make me knock. It won't be polite."
The moment his pressure eased, Elara shoved the door closed
with a force that echoed through the silent hall. The solid thud was her only
reply. On the other side, Julian stared at the unyielding wood, his hand
curling into a fist before he spun on his heel, his mind already weaving a
plausible excuse for the housekeeper.
The small sitting room was a sanctuary of silence, but the
air crackled with unspoken war. Julian waited, a picture of forced calm, as
Elara entered and took the seat farthest from him. She didn't remove her coat,
wrapping it around herself like armour.
He watched her over the rim of his teacup. She was a vision
of icy perfection, utterly unreadable, and it maddened him.
"Everyone who saw us together believed we were the couple,"
he began, the words deliberate, probing. "In Oakhaven, here at the estate… that
was the story. That has to mean something to you."
"And?" The single word was flat, dismissive. She saw his
game clearly.
"And it means this—whatever this is with my father—is a
lie!" he hissed, leaning forward, the veneer of calm cracking. The thought that
she had truly moved on was an acid in his veins. "His world will destroy you,
Elara. It's all backroom deals and men who smile before they slit your throat.
You're a splash of colour in a world of grey. He'll admire you until he grows
bored."
He ran a hand through his hair, his expression contorting
into something resembling genuine anguish. "I know what I did with Vivian… I
know you'll never look at me the same way again. But this? This is a punishment
worse than any hatred. You're throwing yourself away." He leaned closer, his
voice a venomous whisper. "And for what? A man who can't even give you a child.
Do you understand? There will be no heir from his blood. What kind of life is
that? What could you possibly gain?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Elara let it stretch, let his desperate words hang in the space between them.
Then, a slow, cold smile touched her lips.
"I know."
Julian recoiled as if struck. His confidence shattered. "He…
he told you that himself?"
"Who else would I believe?" she replied, her serenity a
weapon against his agitation. In that moment, he looked exactly like what he
was: a spoiled heir, not the formidable man he pretended to be.
She leaned in, her voice low and clear. "Your father is
twice the man you are, Julian, and I suspect he will be even in his old age. Is
it really so impossible to believe that a woman could want him for who he is?"
Her hand drifted unconsciously to her abdomen, a secret, protective gesture
that softened her smile for a fleeting second. "As for children… my concerns
are my own. You should be far more worried about your inheritance."
She rose to her full height, looking down at him with a
disdain that cut deeper than any shout. "What if your father decides to write
you out of his will? What if everything you covet becomes mine?"
"You're delusional!" he spat, surging to his feet, his face
pale with rage. "My father would never be that big a fool!"
"Wouldn't he?" Elara took a final, deliberate step, her
voice dropping to a scathing, maternal tone that stripped him of all power.
"Perhaps if you acted more like a son and less like a rival, he wouldn't be so
disgusted. Remember your place… son."
She turned and left without a backward glance. Julian stood
rooted to the spot, his body trembling with a rage so profound it felt like a
physical force. This wasn't over. She would see. They would both see.
Ashbourne, Thorne Mansion - Hidden Alcove
Concealed behind a silk-screen panel, Ben stood perfectly
still, his youthful face a mask of cold fury. He had witnessed the entire
exchange. The moment the coast was clear, he pulled out his phone, his message
short and lethal.
[To Ethan]: Code Red. The pup is trying to steal the
master's treasure. Wake him up. Now.
Italy, Private Hospital Ward
The phone's vibration was a rude intrusion in the sterile silence. Ethan
snatched it up, his eyes scanning the message from Ben. A vicious snarl ripped
from his throat. "That treacherous little bastard!" he growled, jamming his
thumb on the voice memo button. "He's circling her like a vulture. Using your
vulnerability to make his move? I'll break every bone in his body for this
betrayal!"
A ragged, gravelly sound rasped from the hospital bed. "…Who… is
stealing… what?"
Ethan's head whipped around. In an instant, he was at the bedside, his
rage eclipsed by a surge of pure relief. "Boss! Thank God. You're back with
us." His voice cracked with emotion, the memory of Silas shoving him out of the
bullet's path still raw. That shot had been meant for his own heart. The debt
he owed was immeasurable.
Silas Thorne's eyes opened, heavy-lidded but sharp, the deep brown
irises clearing with an unnerving swiftness. The fiery agony in his shoulder
was a distant nuisance compared to the cold, sharp clarity returning to his
mind. He ignored Ethan's emotional outburst, his focus absolute. "The message,"
he demanded, his voice a dry, commanding scrape. "Report."
"It's Julian, sir," Ethan said, his voice tight with contained fury and
guilt. He leaned closer, emphasising the next words. "That boy you call a son.
He's cornering Elara, right now, under your own roof, while you're lying in a
hospital bed because of a bullet you took for me."
A tempest of dark fury gathered in Silas's gaze. He didn't flinch, but
the intensity in his eyes could have cut glass. "The paternity results are
still inconclusive. A shadow of a doubt is not proof," he stated, his voice low
and deliberate. "But this… this insolence speaks volumes. Keep digging. I want
to know what really happened twenty-two years ago. No more shadows."
He wet his cracked lips, his mind a supercomputer already calculating
time zones, flight paths, and vulnerabilities. "The time… at the estate?"
"Pushing midnight," Ethan confirmed, his meaning chillingly clear.
"They're all under the same roof. Alone."
A grim, determined light ignited in Silas's eyes, burning away the last
vestiges of sedation. With a grunt of sheer will that cost him dearly, he
pushed himself up on his elbows, muscles corded, ignoring the scream of protest
from his bullet-torn flesh. The mental image—of Julian, the heir who might not
be his blood, standing too close to his Elara—was a more potent stimulant than
any drug.
"Boss, you can't!" Ethan protested, his hand hovering, afraid to touch.
"You took that bullet for me; the least I can do is make sure you don't bleed
out on a goddamn airplane! You need to heal! You'll tear the stitches!"
"Heal?" Silas let out a dark, humourless laugh that ended in a sharp
wince. "If I stay here to 'heal,' I'll return to find my wife stolen and a
stranger sitting on my throne, claiming my name." His voice dropped to an
imperious growl that vibrated with the absolute authority of a man who built
empires from nothing. It brooked no argument. "Get the jet ready. Wheels up in
sixty minutes. The entire medical team comes with us."
"But the doctors will never allow—" Ethan tried, desperation in his
voice, the weight of his guilt making him frantic.
Silas cut him off with a glare that could have frozen hell over. "I am
not asking for their permission. I am giving you an order. Now, Ethan."
The command was final. The King was rising from his sickbed, a debt of
blood owed and a kingdom to secure. And a reckoning was coming for the
ambitious heir who dared to mistake his patience for weakness.