The door clicked shut behind Elara, sealing her in a hallway far from
the sterile room. The moment she was alone, the composure she had worn like armour
shattered. A wave of nausea, held back by sheer willpower, crashed over her.
She stumbled into the nearest bathroom, collapsing before the porcelain altar
as her stomach revolted.
Tears, hot and unbidden, streamed down her face, mingling with the sour
taste of bile. Each heave was a violent tremor through her body. Behind her
clenched eyelids, the image was seared into her mind: the ruin of his shoulder,
the raw, angry flesh, the stark reality of a bullet's violence.
Just a gunshot wound, Nathaniel had said so casually. He's survived
worse.
How many times had he been shot? How many times had he danced with death
while she lived in blissful ignorance? A bitter, watery laugh escaped her. She
had married a man who existed in a world of shadows and gunfire, and the
terrifying weight of that truth was finally, fully, settling upon her.
Silas surfaced to consciousness at six a.m., his mind clear but his body
feeling like a vessel drained of all substance. The first thing he registered
was the dull, throbbing fire in his shoulder.
His gaze swept the room, landing on Ethan dozing fitfully in an
armchair. They were alone.
"Ethan." His voice was a dry rasp, but it was enough.
Ethan jolted awake, instantly alert. He was at the bedside in a second,
pressing a practiced hand to Silas's forehead. "Boss! The fever's broken.
Thank god. I'll get the doctor."
As Ethan hurried out, Silas leaned back, piecing together the fractured
memories of the night. Elara's cool hands... her steady voice coaxing him to
take medicine... the blur of being half-carried, her small frame struggling to
support his weight... the scent of her hair in the car.
He didn't need to ask. She had seen it all. The carefully constructed
wall meant to shield her from his world had crumbled in a single night. He
closed his eyes, a faint, grim smile touching his lips. The reckoning was
coming.
The doctor arrived with Ethan and a weary-looking Nathaniel, who held a
simple manila folder that seemed to suck all the air from the room.
After the doctor finished his examination, re-dressed the wound, and
outlined a strict regimen of rest and antibiotics, he departed, leaving a nurse
on standby.
"Ethan, get some real sleep," Nathaniel ordered, his voice
gravelly with fatigue. "I need to talk to your boss."
Ethan nodded, yawning widely. "Right. I should also have Martha
tell Mrs. Thorne the boss is awake." He shuffled out, closing the door
behind him.
Silas's eyes, dark and unreadable, followed Ethan's exit before settling
on the folder in Nathaniel's hand.
"The results?" Silas asked, his voice deceptively calm.
Nathaniel's expression was grim. He didn't speak, simply opened the
folder and handed over the single, damning page.
Silas's eyes scanned the clinical text, skipping to the bottom line, the
only one that mattered:
CONCLUSION: Based on the DNA analysis, the alleged father (Silas Thorne)
is excluded as the biological father of the child (Julian Thorne). Probability
of Paternity: 0.00%.
The paper trembled slightly in his grasp. He had suspected, had felt the
truth in his bones in Italy, but seeing it in black and white was a visceral
blow. The betrayal, years in the making, was now a certified fact.
His knuckles turned white, the paper crinkling in his tightening fist.
Elora Cohen.
You dared.
You truly had the Cohen family's madness running through your veins.
"What the hell happened over there?" Nathaniel demanded, his
brow furrowed in confusion and anger. "I saw the results this morning
and... how is this possible? Didn't you do a test when you brought him home
from the hospital?"
Silas released the report as if it had burned him, his gaze turning icy.
"It's exactly as it appears. Julian is not my son. Elora bribed the
attending physician. She fabricated everything."
Nathaniel ran a hand over his face. "That woman... even from the
grave she's manipulating you. Was she so sure you'd never question it? Never
get a second test?"
A bitter, self-mocking smile twisted Silas's lips. "Hence, the
conveniently timed diagnosis of my 'infertility.'"
The pieces clicked into place for Nathaniel with horrifying clarity. Of
course. Only by making Silas believe he was sterile would he never doubt the
paternity of his supposed only heir. Elora had planned to chain him to her
memory for eternity.
But wait.
A chilling thought occurred to him. He stared at Silas, his voice
dropping to a whisper. "Elora never accounted for one thing, though. You
aren't infertile. All it would take is marrying a woman and her conceiving to
shatter her entire elaborate lie. What was the point then?"
The room was thick with silence.
"Who knows?" Silas replied, his tone flat, his eyes fixed on
some distant point. He idly twisted the signet ring on his finger. "The
woman is dead."
Nathaniel sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room. The twisted history
between Silas and Elora was a labyrinth he could never fully navigate.
"So... what are you going to do about Julian?" he asked
softly. "And when do you plan to tell the family—"
Knock. Knock.
"Mrs. Thorne, Mr. Thorne is awake. You can go in now."
Martha's voice filtered through the door, cutting him off.
In one fluid motion, Silas handed the report back. Nathaniel swiftly
tucked the incriminating paper back into the folder and placed it on the
bedside cabinet, just as the door handle turned.
Elara stepped inside. Dressed in a simple black trench coat, her pale
skin seemed almost translucent, emphasising the faint shadows of fatigue under
her eyes. She had expected only Silas and paused for a fraction of a second
upon seeing Nathaniel.
"Mr. Sterling," she greeted with a polite nod.
"Well, the wife is here. My duty is done," Nathaniel said, his
usual lazy smirk returning. "If I don't get home soon, my little princess
will wake up and throw a fit if Daddy's not there."
"Go," Silas said. "And Nathaniel... thank you. For last
night."
"Don't mention it. But the medical bill still stands. Don't forget
to have your accountant wire the funds," he joked, tapping the manila
folder on the cabinet before striding out.
Elara saw him to the door, closing it softly behind him. The click of
the latch echoed in the sudden stillness.
She turned slowly, her gaze finally landing fully on Silas. He sat
propped up, his pyjama shirt open to reveal the stark white bandages wrapped
around his shoulder and chest. The visual evidence of his dangerous life was
impossible to ignore.
"Elly," he said, his voice low and inviting, his left hand
extending towards her. "Come here."
She looked at his outstretched hand, at the tenderness in his eyes meant
to disarm her. She didn't move. Instead, she took a deliberate step closer to
the bed, her own hands clenched at her sides.
Her eyes, clear and unwavering, lifted from his bandaged shoulder to
meet his gaze.
"Let's talk about how that happened," she said, her voice
deceptively calm, a storm brewing beneath the surface. "First."