The man at the head of the table made every other powerful man Vivian
had ever met look like a boy playing dress-up. Silas Thorne wasn't just
handsome; he was carved from ice and authority, with a face that spoke of
ancient nobility and a presence that sucked the air from the room. He was the
kind of man who could command armies with a whisper and break souls with a
glance.
And he was utterly, infuriatingly, Elara's.
A corrosive jealousy, sharp and acidic, burned through Vivian's veins.
Why did Elara get everything? Why did she, Vivian, have to scheme, beg, and
sell pieces of her soul for scraps, while Elara was simply handed a king on a
silver platter?
As if sensing the venomous thought, Silas's piercing gaze swept across
the table. It landed on Vivian for a fraction of a second—a blast of Arctic
winter that made her flinch and drop her eyes to her plate. She couldn't
withstand that look for a moment longer.
The contrast was brutal. Silas held Elara's chair for her, his sharp
features softening imperceptibly. "Careful, my love," he murmured, his voice a
low rumble that was both a command and a caress as he selected a perfect piece
of avocado toast for her. "The plate is warm."
"You should eat something too," Elara replied, her voice soft but clear,
a gentle smile gracing her lips as she accepted his care.
The simple, intimate exchange sent a silent shockwave through the women
at the table. This was Silas Thorne—the aloof, untouchable patriarch who was a
legend of icy detachment. To see such open tenderness directed at his young
wife was staggering. Even Old Lady Thorne held her tongue, while the others sat
ramrod straight, barely daring to breathe.
Julian watched the interaction, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his
cutlery. He was a boy waiting for a god's judgment.
Finally, Silas took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes—those
terrifyingly intelligent eyes—settling on Julian. The calm before the storm.
"Julian." The name was a statement, not a question. "Aren't you going to
introduce your… guest?"
Julian's spine straightened. "Father. This is Vivian Grays." He paused,
the words sticking in his throat. "My girlfriend."
A gamble. A desperate, foolish gamble.
Silas's expression didn't change. A noncommittal hum was his only
response before he turned back to Elara, but the dismissal in it was absolute.
He had seen Vivian, assessed her, and found her wanting.
Then, he delivered the blow. His tone was deceptively conversational,
yet every word was laced with steel. "Miss Grays. Your reputation certainly
precedes you."
Vivian's face drained of all colour. It was no compliment. It was a
threat. It meant he knew everything—the club, the seduction, the baby—every
sordid detail.
"However," Silas continued, his gaze slicing back to Julian, "today is a
day for family. For ancestral rites. You, in your youthful… enthusiasm, have
forgotten the significance of this occasion. Bringing an outsider to such a
private matter—what explanation do you expect me to give the family elders?"
The public rebuke was a masterclass in humiliation. Julian's face
flushed a deep, mortified crimson before turning ashen. He ducked his head. "My
apologies, Father. It was an error in judgment. I'll have someone see her out
immediately."
Vivian's cheeks burned. Forcing a brittle smile that didn't reach her
eyes, she rose on shaky legs and followed a stiff-backed Julian from the room
without another word.
Elara simply took a delicate bite of her toast, the ghost of a smile on
her lips. The unpleasantness was already forgotten.
In the Garden
The moment they were hidden beneath the blooming plum tree, Vivian's
meek facade shattered.
"I'm leaving, but I am not getting rid of this baby, Julian!" she
hissed, her eyes wild as she grabbed the front of his coat. "We had a deal! No
more talk of an abortion. The baby is almost three months—it's a person! Are
you really that heartless?"
His father's icy dismissal had shattered her confidence. The Thorne
mansion door had felt like a victory, but now it felt like a trap.
"It won't come to that," Julian snapped, prying her fingers from his
jacket with a grimace. "Go home. Wait for my call. I'll arrange your leave from
the club. Don't leave the city. We'll decide everything after the child is
born. For now, you stay out of sight."
His eyes dropped to the slight swell of her stomach, his gaze cold and
possessive. "You know perfectly well that without this child, I would never
even look your way. If you do anything to jeopardise it… don't test me,
Vivian."
She shrank back, her hands flying protectively to her belly, a mask of
wounded devotion sliding into place. "I know you care about the baby, but I
love you. I'd do anything for you. I'll protect him with my life, I promise."
Julian's expression remained stony. "See that you do."
Seeing a sliver of an opening, Vivian rose on her toes and pressed a
quick, claiming kiss to his cheek before turning and hurrying toward the
waiting car.
The second she was gone, Julian's face contorted in disgust. He raised a
hand and roughly scrubbed at the spot her lips had touched.
"Well, isn't that a picture."
Julian spun around. Leaning casually against the trunk of the plum tree
was Ethan, his father's right-hand man and shadow, a smirk playing on his lips.
Before Julian could retort, Ethan's eyes widened in theatrical alarm.
"Whoa, hold still, Master Julian! You've got a little… accessory."
In a blur of motion, Ethan reached out and plucked something from
Julian's hair. He held it up—a small, fuzzy caterpillar dangled from his
fingers.
"Phew. Close call," Ethan said with a mocking click of his tongue.
"Maybe next time you pick a spot for your… tender moments… choose one with
fewer pests. Wearing a green crown is a bad look for anyone, but especially for
a Thorne."
A green crown. The insult—a direct jab at being a cuckold—landed with
brutal precision.
Swallowing his rage, his face purple with fury, Julian could only grind
out a stiff, "Mind your own business, Ethan." He brushed past him, his
shoulders tight with humiliation.
Ethan watched him go, the cold smile returning to his face. He
unclenched his other hand, which had been tucked in his pocket. Resting on his
calloused palm was a single, black strand of Julian's hair, snatched in the
same motion he'd used to remove the imaginary bug.
"Let's see what secrets you're really hiding, little prince," Ethan
murmured to himself, carefully sealing the hair in a small, clear bag.