The silence on the line stretched, thick with Julian's
unspoken resentment. On the other end, Steven Cohen let out a heavy, theatrical
sigh, as if he could see the bitterness festering in his nephew's heart. He
took a deliberate sip of his wine, savouring the moment before twisting the
knife.
"I never imagined Silas would shield you so
completely," Steven purred, his voice laced with false sympathy.
"He's built walls around you since childhood, Julian. Did you really think
those business trips were just about corporate acquisitions? The Winslow
family's dark little empire... their arms deals that span continents... you've
been kept safely on the sidelines like a child playing with toy soldiers while
the real war happens elsewhere."
He paused, letting the image sink in before delivering the
final blow. "I suppose he has... other plans for you now that he's
remarried."
Other plans.
The words were a poison dart, striking true. A bitter, cold
smile twisted Julian's lips as his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.
The leather groaned in protest.
Of course. Now that his body can finally produce a
legitimate heir, he'll have Elara bear him a son. A pure, untainted Thorne to
replace the flawed, unwanted stand-in.
He remembered the visceral shock of seeing the Winslow
warehouse at the port just months ago—the damp, cold air smelling of gun oil
and metal, the crates bursting with enough sophisticated firepower to start a
small war. Carpo John had taken him there, surely on Silas's orders. For a
glorious, fleeting moment, Julian had felt chosen—the heir being initiated into
the family's brutal legacy, his heart pounding with a terrifying mix of fear
and exhilaration.
What a fool he'd been. It wasn't an initiation—it was a
distraction. A bone thrown to the dog while the master feasted elsewhere.
He took a sharp, ragged breath, forcing politeness into his
tone. "I see. Thank you for the information."
Steven's voice dripped with honeyed malice. "So formal
with your uncle? We are family, Julian. Your true family. The Cohens remember
what the Thornes would rather forget." He leaned forward, his voice
dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Remember, I will always be on your
side. Blood always tells in the end."
Julian's grip on the phone tightened until the plastic
creaked. The question that had haunted him for a lifetime, the ghost that
lingered in every cold glance and withheld praise from his father, finally
clawed its way out, raw and vulnerable. "My birth... it was never
something he wanted, was it? I was just... an obligation."
It was the only explanation that made sense for a lifetime
of cold, calculated distance, for the way Silas's eyes seemed to look through
him rather than at him.
The line went deathly still. In his Italian villa, Steven
glanced at the wine glass in his hand, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his
face before he deliberately crushed it. Shards bit into his palm, crimson blood
mingling with the dark wine like a twisted sacrament. He felt no pain, only a
fierce, burning triumph.
"When your mother told him she was pregnant,"
Steven finally said, his voice an eerie, hypnotic calm, "he offered her
money. A substantial sum, to be fair. To make the 'problem' disappear." He
let the word 'problem' hang in the air, letting Julian absorb its full,
devastating weight. "He had no choice but to accept you later, of course.
You are his son in the eyes of the world! This is the debt he owes your
mother's memory! The debt he owes the Cohen family! Never forget, Julian—everything
he has, that empire of his, was built with our backing, on our backs. It all
should have been yours! Without your mother and our family's influence in those
early years, there would be no Silas Thorne as you know him today!"
The words weren't a comfort; they were a brand, searing a
legacy of entitlement and hatred directly onto Julian's soul. He ended the call
and slammed his fists against the steering wheel, the car horn blaring a
strangled cry into the quiet afternoon, a perfect echo of the fury and betrayal
tearing him apart inside.
Silas woke to the soft afternoon light filtering through the
heavy silk curtains, his first conscious thought a single name: Elara.
His eyes scanned the empty space beside him, the cold,
pristine sheets a stark contrast to the warmth she carried with her. A flicker
of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, cut through the haze of sleep and
painkillers. Pushing himself up with his good arm, he was just about to swing
his legs out of bed when the door to the walk-in closet opened, framing her in
the doorway.
There she stood, backlit by the light, her fiery curls
spilling over her shoulders like a cascade of living flame. Their eyes met, and
the air in the room shifted, growing thick and charged. In that single glance,
the lingering frustration from their earlier "observation period"
argument melted away, replaced by something deeper, more potent.
"You're awake," she said, her voice a soft melody
that soothed his restlessness. She leaned against the doorframe, her head
tilted. "Are you hungry? Martha has your herbal tea warm. It smells...
intensely medicinal. Should I bring it up to you?"
"No need to fuss," he replied, a slow,
appreciative smile gracing his lips as he rose. He made a show of stretching
his good arm, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling, a movement that
caused the sheet to dip precariously low on his hips. "My legs still work,
thankfully. If I don't use them soon, I fear my arm won't be the only thing out
of commission. A man needs his exercise."
Elara's gaze swept over him, a faint blush tinting her
cheeks before she gave a curt nod, trying and failing to hide the amusement in
her eyes. "Fine. But if you collapse, don't expect me to carry you. The
'observation period' rules clearly state no strenuous activity."
She turned and retrieved a dark crimson dressing gown from
the closet. He slept shirtless, claiming it helped his wound breathe, and she
had learned to navigate the potent, distracting landscape of his bare chest—a
daily test of her willpower.
Silas watched her approach, a predator's gleam in his hooded
eyes. He deliberately spread his arms wide, presenting the sculpted canvas of
his torso—every defined pectoral, every hard-won ridge of his abdomen—as an
offering, a challenge.
"At your service, darling," he murmured, his voice
a low, early-morning rumble that vibrated in the space between them. "The
patient is ready for his nurse."
Elara's steps faltered halfway to the bed. The sheer,
arrogant masculinity of him was almost laughable, a peacock in full display.
But as she drew closer, the heat radiating from his skin and the clean,
masculine scent of him—sandalwood and something uniquely Silas—wrapped around
her senses, intoxicating and undeniable.
Her breath hitched. Her gaze, against her will, dipped to
the powerful lines of his chest, tracing the faint silvery scars that told
stories of a violent past, before skittering lower, over the tantalising V-cut
that disappeared into his low-slung sleep pants. Her heart hammered a frantic
rhythm against her ribs, a traitorous drumbeat answering his silent call.
"Just... put your clothes on," she stammered,
thrusting the gown toward him and fixing her eyes firmly on the intricate
pattern of the Persian rug, studying it as if it held the secrets of the
universe.
A pang of genuine regret hit Silas. He had pushed too far,
too soon. He saw the real fluster beneath her annoyance and silently chastised
himself. "Angel," he said, his voice dropping into a husky plea. He
gestured weakly with his bandaged right arm. "It's truly useless. Be a
saint and help a wounded man? I promise to be on my best behaviour."
Muttering a string of inventive curses under her breath,
Elara forced herself to see him as just a patient, a piece of marble, a
clinical problem to be solved—anything but the devastatingly attractive man he
was. Blushing furiously, she averted her eyes and helped him into the gown, her
fingers brushing against the warm, hard planes of his shoulders and back as she
manoeuvred the fabric. Each accidental touch sent a jolt of electricity up her
arm.
Desperate to quell the flutter in her stomach and the heat
pooling in her core, she seized on the first piece of news she had, a bucket of
cold water on the simmering tension. "Julian came by today," she
said, her voice slightly too high. "He was... insistent. He mentioned
bringing Vivian over soon to discuss marriage arrangements. He said her
pregnancy 'can't wait any longer.'"
The shift in the atmosphere was immediate and profound.
Silas stilled, his playful demeanour evaporating like mist under a harsh sun.
The warmth in his eyes solidified into chips of cold obsidian. As she finished
tying the sash, he gestured with his chin toward a sleek leather portfolio
resting ominously on the coffee table.
"The documents in that folder," he said, his tone
now grave and devoid of all humour. It was the voice of Silas Thorne, the
empire builder, not the teasing husband. "Read them. All of them. I'll be
downstairs. Find me when you're done."
He left the room without a backward glance, leaving Elara
alone with a sudden, chilling sense of foreboding that seeped into the opulent
room. Her eyes fell upon the folder. She had noticed it this morning, assuming
it was related to his business. Now, it seemed to pulse with a dark, silent
energy, a Pandora's Box waiting on her coffee table.
Crossing the room on legs that felt strangely weak, she
picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, both in physical weight and
implication. With trembling fingers, she untied the delicate cord and opened
the cover.
The first page was a DNA test result from a prestigious
private lab in Switzerland.
The name at the top was Julian Thorne.
Her eyes scanned down, skipping the scientific jargon,
searching for the only line that mattered. Her heart stopped. The box next to
'Probability of Paternity' was stark, bold, and devastatingly final:
0.00%.
CONCLUSION: Silas Thorne is EXCLUDED as the biological
father of Julian Thorne.
Elara's blood ran cold. The world tilted on its axis, the
luxurious bedroom swimming around her. All the pieces of the puzzle—Silas's
coldness, Julian's desperate resentment, Steven's poisonous
insinuations—slammed into place with brutal, horrifying clarity.
Julian wasn't his son.
The foundation of the Thorne family was a lie. And she was
now holding the lit match that could burn their entire world to the ground.