A tense silence stretched between them. Elara's delicate face was a mask
of controlled fury, her cherry-red lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
The thick sweep of her lashes couldn't completely hide the storm in her eyes,
and her hands, clenched in her lap, were white-knuckled where they gripped the
fabric of her coat.
Silas watched her, a rare flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. He
couldn't read her, and that unnerved him more than any business rival ever
could.
Slowly, he closed the distance between them, his left hand tentatively
reaching for her fisted one.
Her head snapped up. "I'm not finished," she bit out, her
voice dangerously low. "Don't. Touch. Me."
A resigned smile touched his eyes. Ignoring her command, his hand darted
out, his fingers closing like a manacle around her wrist.
Elara gasped as the world tilted. One moment she was on the sofa, the
next she was hauled sideways onto his lap, caged securely by his left arm. The
heat of his body seeped through her clothes, a stark contrast to the ice in her
veins.
"Be still, Elly," his voice was a low, indulgent murmur
against her ear, a blatant attempt to soothe. "Unless you want to explain
to the doctor how you managed to reopen my wound."
She stilled instantly, though her body remained rigid with indignation.
She glared up at him, her cheeks flushed. "Then you shouldn't be
manhandling me!"
"Not an option," he said, his tone final. He tilted his head,
his deep, obsidian eyes capturing hers. The faint crinkles at their corners did
nothing to soften their intensity. "If I let you go, you'll run. And if
you run, who will I call my wife?"
He was infuriating. A thirty-seven-year-old man, a titan of industry,
reduced to this… this shameless scoundrel just to get his way.
Elara's chest rose and fell in a sharp, frustrated rhythm. A bitter,
half-smile curved her lips, but she said nothing.
Silas almost laughed. His little rabbit had grown claws, and now she had
him wrapped around her finger. The thought was both exasperating and unbearably
enticing.
He cleared his throat, his voice dropping into that coaxing, intimate
register he used only with her. "Darling, this injury was a moment of
carelessness. A fluke. It won't happen again, I swear it. And I made sure the
other party paid a far steeper price. They won't be troubling me—or
us—again."
Elara's lips remained sealed.
Seeing a slight crack in her armour, he pressed on, his voice softening
further. "I have you now. I have our children. This life is more precious
to me than ever, because it's the one that gets to love you. I will always come
home to you. From now on, you will be the first to know everything. No more
secrets."
Her eyes, sharp and discerning, finally met his. "And what happens
when you break that promise?"
His gaze was unwavering, filled with a formidable certainty. "I
will keep it."
She arched a brow, waiting.
He let out a soft breath, a reluctant concession. "But if I fail,
you may mete out any punishment you see fit." A possessive gleam entered
his eyes. "However, divorce is not, and will never be, on the table."
So domineering, she thought, an internal eye-roll accompanying her
placid expression. His 'at her mercy' still came with conditions.
"Fine. I understand," she conceded, her voice flat. She
wriggled in his grasp. "Now put me down."
"Not just yet," he murmured, tightening his hold and looking
down at her exquisite, furious face. "Are we done discussing the
injury?"
Elara leaned into his broad chest, a deceptive gesture of closeness. She
blinked up at him, her gaze deceptively sweet. "We're moving into an
observation period. No hugging, no cuddling, no unnecessary physical contact.
It will interfere with my assessment."
His smile froze. "An observation period?" he repeated, his
voice dangerously calm. "And how long does this... assessment...
last?"
She pretended to consider it. "...Three months should
suffice."
"Impossible," he bit out, his face darkening. "A week. My
final offer."
"Two months," she countered, refusing to yield. If she forgave
him too easily, he'd never learn.
"Half a month," he ground out, his jaw tight. "That is my
absolute limit. Don't push me, Elara."
Their eyes warred for a long, charged moment. Finally, Elara offered a
tight, brittle smile. "Fine. Now put me down. The observation period
starts now."
Silas released a long-suffering sigh and reluctantly loosened his arms.
She scrambled off his lap, putting a safe distance between them faster than a
startled hare.
The arrival of Julian at Rosewood Manor sent a jolt of surprise through
Elara.
When Martha informed her that "Young Master Julian" was
waiting downstairs, the words slipped out before she could stop them,
"What is he doing here?"
Martha's expression remained impeccably neutral. "Young Master
Julian mentioned that Master Silas and you left the family estate quite
abruptly last night. The old lady was concerned, so she sent him to check on
things."
It was now eleven in the morning. Silas, having taken his pain
medication, was fast asleep. Julian's timing was, as always, impeccably
inconvenient.
A faint frown touched Elara's brow as she descended the stairs.
In the vast, opulent living room, Julian stood with his back to her, a
solitary figure silhouetted against the grand floor-to-ceiling windows. At the
sound of her footsteps, he turned, his dark eyes scanning the space behind her
before settling on her alone. A flicker of surprise, then suspicion, crossed
his features.
"Where is my father?"
"Your father is in a video conference. The overseas team needed an
urgent meeting, which is why we had to return last night," Elara replied,
her tone polite but layered with frost. "Please assure the old lady
there's no need for concern."
Julian took several deliberate steps forward, stopping on the other side
of the coffee table, his presence suddenly overwhelming.
"Elly," he said, his voice low and insistent. "Don't lie
to me. What happened to him? Last night, I saw you and Ethan practically
carrying him to the car."
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs, but her expression remained a
placid lake. "You must be mistaken. It was late."
The air grew thick with tension. Julian's gaze sharpened, becoming
almost predatory. "Elly, don't forget—I am his son. I have every right to
know if my father is hurt. That is a right you, as his wife, cannot take from
me."
He knew what he saw. His father's body, usually a pillar of unshakeable
strength, had been leaning heavily on Ethan. It was either a sudden illness,
or... his condition had been compromised even before he returned.
He suspected the latter.
Elara wasn't sure how much Julian truly knew about Silas's world, but
every instinct screamed that this information was dangerous and needed to be
contained.
"Believe what you want," she said, her chin lifting in a
subtle challenge. "Shall I call for Ethan so you can interrogate him? Or
would you prefer to march upstairs and disrupt your father's multi-million
dollar conference for proof?"
Julian's gaze deepened, a storm of resentment brewing in their dark
depths.
This woman...
When had she become like this? So sharp, so unyielding.
The docile, gentle girl he could once manipulate with a word was gone,
replaced by this thorny, defiant rose.
And he knew, with a sickening certainty, that this transformation was
his father's doing.
"Then please inform my father that I came by," he said, the
words clipped.
A wave of bitter anger crested within him, and he leaned forward, his
voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "And tell him I'll be bringing
Vivian by in a few days to discuss the marriage. We can't wait any longer.
Her... condition... is becoming difficult to hide."
He watched her face, hungry for a flinch, a crack, any sign of pain.
He found none.
Elara didn't so much as blink. "Of course. I'll be sure to pass
along the message."
The dismissal in her tone was absolute.
The blow landed squarely in Julian's chest, knocking the air from his
lungs. He stared at her for one more searing moment before turning on his heel
and striding out, his long coat swirling around him like a cloak of fury.
As Julian stormed out of the villa, he nearly collided with Ethan on the
steps.
Their eyes met for a split second—a silent, hostile exchange—before
Julian brushed past him without a word.
Ethan watched the black G-Class roar out of the courtyard, a slow,
cynical smirk spreading across his face. Just wait until he finds out he's not
Mr. Thorne's blood heir, he thought. That expression will be priceless.
The G-Class screeched to a halt just outside the estate gates. Julian
gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his breath coming in ragged
gasps. The red haze of betrayal clouded his vision.
After a long minute, he snatched his phone and stabbed at a number.
The line rang, and rang. Finally, it connected.
"Well, well," a clear, cheerful voice answered. "To what
do I owe the pleasure, little Julian?"
"No pleasantries," Julian snarled, his voice raw. "You
knew my father was out of the country."
"Mmhmm," Steven Cohen purred from his villa in Italy, swirling
a glass of blood-red wine.
"You knew he ran into trouble," Julian pressed, his suspicion
coiling tight.
"Are you trying to interrogate your dear uncle?" Steven
chuckled, a soft, malicious sound. "Julian, we're family. You can ask me
anything."
He paused, letting the silence build into a promise.
"Anything your father doesn't want you to know... I will be more
than happy to tell you."
He took a slow sip of wine. "He was shot. In Italy. He lies to you,
hides things from you... and yet you still call him 'Father'?"
The words hit Julian like a physical blow, freezing him in place.
Shot.
He was shot, and Elara knew. Ethan knew. Even his conniving uncle knew.
But he, the son, was left in the dark.
Did Silas Thorne even consider him a son at all?
The question festered, a fresh, open wound as he sat alone in the
silence.