Elara's last shred of consciousness clung on until the bright lights of
the hospital entrance flooded her vision. She saw Ingrid's anxious face, saw
doctors rushing toward them, and then the world went dark.
She was swept into the emergency operating room, leaving Silas and
Ingrid in the cold, sterile silence of the hallway.
Silas stood motionless, his once-pristine white shirt now a crumpled,
bloodstained testament to the night's horrors. He was a statue of grim
intensity, his broad shoulders slumped ever so slightly, his dark eyes burning
a hole through the operating room doors. The usual unshakable power that
radiated from him had been replaced by a raw, vulnerable fear.
Ingrid, her own heart a tight knot of worry, placed a comforting hand on
his arm. Words were useless now. The mere phone call she'd received—about
Vivian being shot, about the chaos—had been bad enough. But to learn that
Steven had sunk to such depths, that he'd targeted pregnant women… and then
that Elara had been taken…
It was unthinkable.
The christening banquet had become a blood-soaked battlefield. The
Winslow and Hudson names would contain the scandal, of course. Money and power
would silence the guests and bury the dead mercenaries. But the shockwaves
would reverberate through their world for a long time.
After what felt like an eternity, Ingrid's phone buzzed. She listened,
her expression tightening before she hung up and turned to Silas, her voice
low.
"The servant at Vivian's operating theatre just reported. The bullet…
she lost the baby. Her uterus was too damaged. They had to perform a
hysterectomy. Julian authorised it."
At the words "lost the baby," Silas flinched. The image of Elara, so
pale and fragile in his arms, flashed behind his eyes. His fists clenched at
his sides.
His Elly was strong. She had to be.
"And Julian's parentage?" Ingrid asked, her voice cold. "Was it Steven?"
Silas's gaze remained fixed on the doors. "He seemed as surprised as
anyone. But it doesn't matter now. With Elora Cohen dead, the blame rests
squarely with him. He's accepted that." It was a bitter understanding that had
passed between them—two enemies who knew each other's scars a little too well.
Ingrid's lips thinned. "The madness in the Cohen bloodline… it seems
both siblings inherited it."
Silas said nothing, the memory of the vicious bite on Elara's neck
burning in his mind.
Just past eleven, the operating room lights switched off far sooner than
he'd dared hope. His heart hammered against his ribs as he strode forward,
meeting the surgeon as he emerged.
"Dr. Miller," Silas's voice was rough with disuse. "My wife?"
Dr. Miller pulled down his mask, offering a small, reassuring smile.
"Mr. Thorne, you can breathe. Mrs. Thorne is stable."
Silas's entire body sagged with relief, but the doctor's next words
froze the blood in his veins.
"And the two babies are, for the moment, unharmed."
Two babies.
The words hung in the air, stark and unbelievable.
It was Ingrid who found her voice first. "Dr. Miller… 'for the moment'?
And did you say… two?"
"Yes, Mrs. Winslow. Twins." Dr. Miller's expression turned serious.
"This is the critical part. At this early stage, the babies are well-protected.
A simple fall isn't usually catastrophic. However, Mrs. Thorne was under
extreme duress, and the impact of her jump was focused on one side of her
pelvis. This has caused a sub-chorionic haemorrhage—a bleed. We've managed to stabilise
it, but the pregnancy is now high-risk."
He looked directly at Silas, his tone grave. "She must remain on
complete bed rest in the hospital. No stress, no movement. We will do
everything to preserve the pregnancy, but how long this will take, and the
final outcome… depends entirely on Mrs. Thorne's body and her will to fight."
"Will there be any lasting damage to my wife?" Silas asked, his voice
deadly quiet.
"She is young and remarkably resilient. With proper care, she should
make a full physical recovery. Right now, your focus needs to be on her comfort
and absolute calm."
The doors swung open, and Elara was wheeled out. She looked
heartbreakingly small amidst the tubes and wires, an oxygen cannula under her
nose, her skin pale as moonlight against the white sheets. Silas's throat
tightened. He moved to her side, his large hand enveloping her cold one, his
thumb stroking her knuckles as they followed the gurney to the private suite
upstairs.
Once she was settled and the nurses had left, Ingrid watched her nephew.
She watched him meticulously wash his hands, dampen a cotton swab, and gently
moisten Elara's parched lips. The sight of this powerful, ruthless man
performing such a tender act sent a pang through her heart. He hadn't shown
this kind of vulnerability since he was a small, heartbroken boy.
"Ingrid," he said without looking up, his voice soft. "Could you go back
and pack some clothes for us? For Elly and me."
"Of course," she said, her own voice thick with emotion. "I'll take care
of everything outside. You just focus on Elly."
After she left, the room was steeped in a heavy silence. Silas pulled a
chair close to the bed, never releasing Elara's hand. He brought her fingers to
his lips, pressing a long, desperate kiss to her skin, his eyes never leaving
her face.
The vibration of his phone felt like an intrusion. He answered without
looking, his gaze still fixed on Elara.
"Report."
It was Carpo John. "Boss, Steven's men have been neutralised. Survivors
are being questioned. The scene is clean. One thing—the man you shot in the leg
on the third floor. He disappeared during the cleanup. His team must have
extracted him."
Silas gave a low hum of acknowledgment and ended the call. Almost
immediately, the phone buzzed again. Ben.
"Boss," Ben's voice was weary, the sound of crashing waves faint in the
background. "We've combed the coastline for over two hours. No sign of him. The
tide was strong tonight… we think he was pulled out to sea."
He didn't need to say the rest. Two gunshot wounds, the churning, cold
ocean—it was a death sentence.
Silas's eyes drifted to the stark white bandage on Elara's neck, a
visual echo of Steven's final, vicious act. His expression hardened into a mask
of cold resolve.
"Deploy boats. Drag the surrounding waters. Monitor every inch of the
coast."
His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of an unbreakable vow.
"I don't care if he's fish food. Even if he's dead, we must retrieve his
body."