Zurich was a postcard under a pale, polite sun, but to Elara, the Alps
were just another set of walls. The clinic, Sanatorium Alpenruhe, was a
sprawling, serene complex of cream-coloured buildings nestled in a private
valley. From their rented car on a scenic overlook, Silas pointed out the
security minutiae invisible to the casual eye: the discreet cameras in the
flowering linden trees, the reinforced gates designed to look rustic, the
uniformed orderlies who moved with the alertness of former soldiers.
"Direct approach is still high-risk," Silas murmured, binoculars trained
on the main entrance. "The upgrade in protocols is visible. They're expecting
trouble, or a VIP."
"We are the VIPs," Elara said, her gaze fixed on a second-floor balcony
where a solitary figure sat wrapped in a blanket, facing the mountains. Too far
to see a face, just a silhouette of stillness. Her aunt. Her mother's sister.
The thought was a dull, persistent ache. "Our cover is set. Ben's forged
referrals are flawless. We have an appointment for a tour tomorrow at ten, to
evaluate the facility for a 'frail family member'."
"It gets us inside the gate. Not necessarily to her," Silas cautioned,
lowering the binoculars. "She'll be in the high-security private wing. That
requires separate, pre-approved clearance."
Elara's phone vibrated—a message from a number she didn't recognise,
containing only an address in Zurich's old town and a time: 7 PM. The follow-up
text came from her own network coordinator: *Source secured. Former domestic
staff, Cohen household, 1980s-90s. Claims relevant information. Payment
requested.*
It was a risk, a potential distraction, or a trap. But their official
move was tomorrow. This was tonight.
"We have a lead," she told Silas. "Local. Someone who worked for the
Cohens."
The address led to a cramped, immaculate apartment above a chocolatier,
the air sweet and heavy. The woman who answered was in her late seventies, her
back stooped but her eyes sharp behind thick lenses. She introduced herself
only as Greta. Her hands, gnarled from a lifetime of work, trembled slightly as
she poured tea.
"You are the Thorne woman," Greta stated in precise, accented English.
"The one in the papers. The one fighting the Hayes man." She studied Elara with
an unflinching directness. "You look like her. More than the other one did."
Elara's pulse quickened. "Like who?"
"The beautiful one. The sad one. Elora." Greta said the name with a mix
of reverence and sorrow. "She would visit the main house sometimes, when the
Master was away. A light in that cold place. She was kind. She asked my name.
Not many did."
Silas stood by the door, a silent, watchful presence, letting Elara take
the lead.
"You worked for Arthur Cohen?" Elara asked gently.
"For the family," Greta corrected. "The Master, Arthur. And his brother,
Mr. Steven, when he was in residence, which was often then. Before the
trouble." She sipped her tea, her gaze drifting to a past only she could see.
"They were different, the brothers. The Master was… stone. Correct. Mr. Steven
was fire. Handsome, wild, full of laughter that could shake the room. And pain
that could darken it."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as
if the walls of the old Cohen house still had ears. "Everyone in the house
knew. It was the great, forbidden secret we all carried, like a heavy tray. Mr.
Steven… he was consumed by a love he could never have. A love that was a sin."
Elara's breath caught. "For whom?"
Greta's eyes locked onto hers, filled with a lifetime of held silence.
"For his brother's wife."
The words landed like a physical blow. His brother's wife. Arthur's
wife. Eleanor.
But Greta was already shaking her head, as if reading the assumption.
"No, not that wife. The first one."
The room seemed to tilt. Arthur had been married before Eleanor?
"The first Mrs. Cohen," Greta whispered, the words tinged with old fear.
"She was… unwell. Fragile. Beautiful like a crystal vase, but with a crack you
could feel. The Master, he wanted the perfect family. She could not give it to
him. The arguments were quiet, terrible things. And Mr. Steven… he was always
there to pick up the pieces. To make her smile. The love between them grew in
the shadows of that unhappy house. It was a tragedy waiting to happen."
Elara felt a cold certainty dawning. "What was her name?"
Greta's eyes glistened. "Elora. Her name was Elora Cohen."
Elora. Not Thorne. Cohen.
The world dissolved into a roar of white noise. Her mother's name. The
signature on the document. Her aunt… was not her mother's sister by blood. She
was her mother's sister by marriage. Arthur Cohen's first wife.
"Elora… and Steven?" Elara managed to ask, her voice hollow.
Greta nodded, a single, grave dip of her head. "It was an open secret
among the staff. The way he looked at her. The way her spirit came alive only
for him. Then, she became pregnant." The old woman's face crumpled with
remembered distress. "The Master was furious. A scandal of unimaginable
proportions. His brother and his wife? The child would be a living testament to
their betrayal. He made arrangements. The pregnancy was hidden—she was sent
away to a private home in the country. When the child was born, a boy, he was
taken immediately."
Julian.
Julian was not just Steven's son. He was the son of Steven and Arthur's
own wife. His birth wasn't just an indiscretion; it was the ultimate betrayal,
a devastating coup within the family.
"And Elora?" Elara asked, her heart aching for this woman she'd never
known, whose name she shared.
"She broke," Greta said simply, a tear tracing a path through her
wrinkles. "The loss of the child… the shame… the Master had her declared
unstable. It was easy; her heart was already shattered. He divorced her
quietly. She was moved to… care. Then, he married the second Mrs. Cohen, the
socialite, and presented the baby as their own miracle child. A fresh start. A
perfect lie."
The pieces, horrific and elegant in their cruelty, fell into place. The
adoption was a cover for a stolen child. Arthur had taken his brother's son,
the product of his wife's betrayal, and made him his heir—a punishment and a
perverse claiming all in one. Steven's disappearance after being shot… was it
just evasion, or had he been silenced by a brother whose vengeance was
generations deep?
"The witness," Elara pressed, barely able to speak. "On the adoption
papers. Another Elora Thorne."
Greta looked confused for a moment, then her expression cleared with
pity. "Ah. The kind one. The artist. She came later. After the first Elora was
already… gone. She was the Master's second wife's friend, I think. Or perhaps
she knew the first Elora from before? I do not know. But she was brought in, I
heard, to sign something. To give a face of normalcy to the… arrangement. They
used her goodness to seal their sin."
Elara's mother hadn't been a sister. She'd been a character witness. A
respectable name used to launder a horrific truth. Her October silence… had she
learned what she'd inadvertently legitimised?
Silas's hand found Elara's shoulder, a steadying pressure. The mystery
had inverted. They hadn't been searching for Elara's aunt. They'd been
searching for the first Mrs. Cohen. The woman in the clinic wasn't just a
secret mother; she was the original wife, the tragic, beloved heart of the
entire curse.
"Thank you, Greta," Elara said, her voice thick. The payment was
transferred, the gratitude genuine.
As they stepped back out into the sweet evening air, the picturesque
city felt like a funhouse mirror. The woman on the balcony wasn't just a hidden
relative. She was Elora Cohen. Julian's true mother. And the man who raised him
wasn't his benevolent uncle, but the husband she had betrayed—a man who had
then stolen her child and buried her alive in a Swiss clinic.
"Julian doesn't know any of this," Silas said quietly as they walked.
"He thinks he's the adopted son of his uncle. He doesn't know he's the
biological son of a union that destroyed his adoptive father's first marriage."
Elara looked toward the mountains, where the clinic hid its ghosts.
Tomorrow, they would walk in there. But what they were walking into was no
longer a simple rescue. It was an exhumation. And the truth they were about to
wake might be too monstrous for any of them to bear.