The sound of Vivian's retching hung in the air, a vulgar interruption to
the dinner's tense formality. All eyes were pinned on her, wide with a mixture
of shock and dawning comprehension.
Vivian, sensing the weight of their stares, hastily lowered her hand
from her mouth. She dabbed delicately at the corners of her eyes, which were
red-rimmed with manufactured distress. "My sincerest apologies,
everyone," she murmured, her voice a fragile whisper. "Lately, I just
can't tolerate strong smells... they turn my stomach so easily..."
As if on cue, her gaze flickered to the rich, aromatic dish placed
directly in front of her: a Branzino al Sale, a Mediterranean sea bass baked in
a crust of sea salt, its potent, briny scent now filling the air. She convulsed
again, a hand flying back to her mouth. Ugh—
The women around the table exchanged knowing glances. They were all
familiar with the signs. This wasn't just nausea; this was a performance, and
the script was all too clear.
Julian rose swiftly, his chair scraping against the floor. He placed a
protective hand on Vivian's back, his face a mask of concerned tension.
"Forgive us. Vivian is a little over two months along, and the morning
sickness has been... severe. I should take her to freshen up."
As he guided the pale, trembling Vivian out of the dining room, the
silence they left behind was deafening.
It was Auntie Thorne who broke it, her voice dripping with saccharine
delight. She turned to Old Lady Thorne, beaming. "Well now, sister-in-law!
Congratulations are in order! A double blessing for the Thorne family. First
Silas, a bachelor for so long, finally takes a lovely young wife, and now
Julian, so young himself, is to be a father! May your home soon be filled with
the laughter of many grandchildren. This vast mansion has been far too quiet
for far too long."
Old Lady Thorne's face could have been carved from ice. Not a single
line of joy softened her severe expression. Her lips were pressed into a
bloodless line, and the wrinkles on her face seemed to deepen into grooves of
pure displeasure.
She wasn't a fool. She saw right through Julian's ploy. By parading this
pregnant woman before the entire family, he was forcing her hand, backing her
into a corner where she would have to accept his marriage to that… that Grays
woman. He was growing bolder, just like his father, with less and less regard
for her authority.
From her seat, Elara took a slow sip of water, her observant gaze
shifting between the two elder women. Now, she could see it—the subtle crack in
the family's polished facade. Auntie Thorne's eyes sparkled with a venomous
kindness, her congratulations laced with pointed barbs meant to provoke the
matriarch.
A strange sense of relief washed over Elara. She had been anxious about
her own potential morning sickness, worried a stray scent might betray her
secret. But Vivian, in her desperate play for acceptance, had stolen the
spotlight entirely. For the moment, the queasy tension in her own chest had
miraculously subsided.
"Elara, dear," Auntie Thorne began, clearly ready to pivot the
conversation her way, "about Silas—"
The distinct chime of Elara's phone cut her off. A genuine, radiant
smile instantly lit up Elara's face. It was a look of pure, unadulterated
relief.
"My apologies, Auntie," Elara said, rising gracefully from her
chair, phone in hand. "It's Silas. Please, don't let me interrupt your
meal."
She answered the call, pressing the phone to her ear as she hurried
toward the quiet solitude of the courtyard. "Silas? Where are you? When
will you be home?" Her voice, barely a whisper, trembled with pent-up
emotion.
On the other end of the line, hearing the faint tremor in her voice,
Silas's heart clenched. "Darling, I'm alright. Don't worry," he said,
his own voice a low, husky rasp that sent a shiver down her spine. "An
unexpected situation delayed me. I'm only just boarding the plane now."
Elara stopped walking, leaning against a cool stone pillar. The wave of
relief was so potent it made her eyes sting. She tilted her head back, blinking
rapidly against the night sky.
"Silas," she breathed, the words tumbling out in a rushed
confession. "You scared me to death. No messages, your phone switched off,
Ethan wouldn't answer… I've been waiting since morning. I felt like a headless
chicken, terrified that something terrible had happened and I was just sitting
here, oblivious. I was even thinking… if I didn't hear from you soon, I'd have
to go find Ingrid myself..."
She wasn't scolding him; she was simply pouring out the fear that had
been gnawing at her all day.
The confession was a physical blow to Silas. The pain that lanced
through his chest was sharper than any wound from the recent ambush. Lying on
the mobile hospital bed inside the private jet, an IV drip still in his arm, he
forced the corners of his mouth to lift. His dark eyes, heavy with exhaustion,
swam with self-reproach.
"I'm so sorry, my love. I handled this poorly and made you
worry." His voice was soft, a deliberate caress. "Get some rest
tonight. When you open your eyes tomorrow morning, I'll be there. I promise.
And then you can punish me however you see fit."
Elara's lips instinctively formed a pout. "You silly man, it wasn't
your fault. Why would I punish you?" Then, remembering his situation, she
hurriedly added, "You're on the plane now, right? Have you taken off? I
shouldn't keep you. Just… please hurry home."
"You hang up first," Silas murmured softly.
Elara obediently ended the call, sinking against the pillar as a long,
shuddering breath of relief escaped her. The heavy stone of anxiety that had
been crushing her chest finally dissolved. Tonight, she would sleep.
Meanwhile, on the Tarmac in Italy…
The Gulf-stream jet hummed on the runway, ready for departure.
"Boss, it's not too late to turn back to the hospital. The doctors
said—" Ethan tried again, his face etched with concern.
"Enough," Silas cut him off, his voice a thread of steel.
"The doctors cleared me for travel. Send the medical team away."
Ethan watched the anxious Italian staff disembark, then slumped into a
seat beside Silas. "It's all arranged for tonight," he said, his tone
shifting to grim determination. "We'll make sure we blow that nest of
vipers back to the stone age."
A ghost of a smile touched Silas's lips before he closed his eyes,
exhaustion finally pulling him under. Revenge would come, but first, he had to
get home to his wife.
Back at the mansion, Elara felt a newfound calm. After informing Ben
that Silas was safely en route, she returned indoors.
The dinner was winding down. Noticing that Julian and Vivian had not
returned, she felt a surge of disdain. When Auntie Thorne opened her mouth,
undoubtedly to pry about Silas's call, Elara preempted her with a graceful
smile.
"Silas was simply delayed. He'll be back by morning. You can see
him then, Auntie."
Without waiting for a response, she excused herself and retreated to the
sanctuary of her room. That night, burden lifted, she fell into a deep,
dreamless sleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
Hours later, the first thing that registered was a sensation—hot,
insistent, and possessive. Something warm and wet was tracing the seam of her
lips, stealing her breath, pulling her from the depths of sleep.
A familiar pressure... a demanding hunger...
She stirred, consciousness returning not to the quiet of her room, but
to the overwhelming presence of the man who had, against all odds, come home.