The war room in Aeterna Tower no longer felt like a command centre. To
Elara, it had become a cage of glowing screens and whispered strategy, the air
thick with a tension that had a new, physical weight. The first trimester's
fatigue had been a subtle shadow; now, well into the second, the reality of her
pregnancy was a constant, undeniable presence. A low, persistent ache in her
lower back, a sudden dizziness if she stood too quickly, the baby's first
fluttering movements that felt less like butterflies and more like a silent,
urgent reminder.
She hid it as best she could. She wore tailored blazers that still
skimmed her figure, deployed strategic layers, and powered through the fatigue
with sheer will. But Silas saw everything.
He saw the way she subtly braced a hand on the conference table when she
thought no one was looking. The extra seconds she took to rise from her chair.
The deep, covert breaths she drew when a wave of nausea passed, now less about
morning sickness and more about sheer, unadulterated stress.
"Elara." His voice was low, meant only for her, as they reviewed a
financial timeline Julian had provided. Ben was across the room, and Julian was
by the window, staring at the city as if it were a map of his own ruined
inheritance. "You need to rest. An hour. Just close your eyes."
"I'm fine," she said, the automatic response sharpened by irritation.
She didn't look at him, her finger tracing a line of data on the tablet. "This
transfer, from the Luxembourg shell to a holding company in Singapore… that's
new. That's Steven moving assets again. We can't rest."
"The baby—" he started, his concern a tight wire.
"—is fine," she cut in, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were fierce,
but underscored with violet shadows. "My last checkup was perfect. This is
stress. And the only cure for this stress is ending him."
It was more than that. This fight was her legacy to their child. A world
where ghosts like Steven Cohen could manipulate, imprison, and extort with
impunity was not a world she would bring a son or daughter into. She had to
win. For Evelyn, for the lost Elora, for Julian, for herself, and for the tiny,
fluttering life inside her that depended on her to clear the poison from the
air.
Later that evening, the toll became impossible to ignore. They were in
their private quarters, and Elara was attempting to pace, thinking through the
legal ramifications of a pre-emptive strike. A piercing pain, like a hot wire,
shot up her side. She gasped, stumbling, one hand flying to her abdomen, the
other grabbing the back of a sofa.
Silas was across the room in an instant, his hands steadying her.
"Enough. This is not a debate." His voice left no room for argument. "You're
going to lie down. Now."
"Silas, I can't just—"
"You can," he said, his tone softening into something desperate. He
guided her to the bedroom, his arm around her. "You are not indestructible.
You're carrying our child. The stress hormones, the sleepless nights, the
constant adrenaline… it's not sustainable. Let me and Ben and even Julian
handle the next phase. You direct from here."
She allowed him to help her onto the bed, the defeat making her eyes
burn. The physical vulnerability was a humiliation. "This is my fight too. He
threatened my mother. He's holding my aunt captive. He's the reason we're in
this mess!"
"And that is exactly why you need to be strong for the finish line," he
said, kneeling beside the bed, taking her hand. His touch was warm, grounding.
"This isn't stepping back. It's tactical preservation. The most important asset
in this battle isn't the ledger or the evidence. It's you. Healthy. And our
child, safe."
A single tear of frustration escaped, tracking down her temple into her
hair. "I feel like I'm failing. Like I'm letting him win by being weak."
"Growing a human is the farthest thing from weak," Silas said, his thumb
stroking her knuckles. "It's the most powerful thing you'll ever do. And it
requires fuel. And peace. Which you are not getting in that war room."
The next morning, a compromise was brokered, with Julian as an
unexpected mediator. He arrived at the penthouse, his demeanour less shattered
than the day before, hardened by a new resolve. He took in Elara's paler
complexion, the protective way Silas hovered.
"My father—Steven," Julian corrected, the name still foreign and bitter,
"he preys on perceived weakness. But he also underestimates commitment. He
thinks a physical vulnerability will make you retreat." He looked at Elara.
"But I've seen you fight. Your mind is your sharpest weapon. Use it from here.
Let us be your hands."
The "us" was not lost on her. Julian had fully crossed over.
The new arrangement was forged. Elara would work from the residential
wing, connected via secure video. Silas would lead the active field operations
and coordination with Ben. Julian, using his remaining access and deep
knowledge of Cohen Holdings' hidden pathways, would be the insider, funnelling
information and exploiting his father's blind spots—the biggest of which, they
all knew, was his own son.
It was an uneasy truce with biology, but it held. For two days, Elara
directed the flow of information, her strategic mind sharper when not clouded
by physical strain. She mapped the Singapore holdings, drew lines between
Steven's old allies and Robert's former shell companies, and began crafting the
public narrative they would use to expose the ghost.
But the peace was fragile. On the third afternoon, as she reviewed a
draft of the press release that would name Steven Cohen as the architect of
Kore Tech, a new email arrived in her most private, encrypted inbox.
The sender field was blank. The subject line read: A Mother's Penance.
Attached were three more scanned journal pages. One detailed Evelyn's
torment after signing the adoption witness form. Another spoke of a secret
financial loan from Arthur Cohen to save the Thorne family business in the late
80s—a loan that had never been repaid, and never been disclosed. The third was
a raw, aching entry questioning her own marriage, her happiness, her very
worth.
The message below was brief:
"The first instalment. The next goes to the Financial Times. Stand
down."
The phantom pain in her side returned, a sympathetic echo of her
mother's recorded anguish. Steven wasn't just threatening her company; he was
meticulously dismantling the woman who had raised her, exposing every doubt,
every moment of human weakness.
Elara placed a hand on her abdomen, where the baby turned restlessly.
She felt pulled in two—between the child who needed a mother not consumed by a
past war, and the daughter who could not let her mother's memory be weaponised
and defiled.
She picked up the secure phone and called Silas. "He's made his move.
The journals have started."
She could hear the immediate tension in his silence. "Are you alright?"
"No," she said honestly, her voice trembling with fury and grief. "But
I'm not stepping down. We accelerate. Release our statement. Today. We hit him
with everything we have on Kore Tech, and we do it now. If he wants to duel
with ghosts, we'll give him a war in the daylight."
She ended the call, breathing through another, stronger cramp. This was
her fight. Her child would learn that some things were worth fighting for, even
when it hurt. Even when you were afraid. The weight of the light was heavy, but
she would carry it. For both of them.