The sleek black door of the town car closed behind Elara with a soft,
expensive thud, sealing her in a moment of quiet before the storm. She had just
taken a step towards the glittering facade of Aeternum Corp when a familiar
voice sliced through the crisp morning air.
"Mr. Thorne."
It was Ben. Elara froze, her spine straightening instinctively. She
followed the trajectory of Silas's gaze, her own eyes landing on the scene
unfolding just a few parking spaces away. Her breath hitched.
It was Julian's sports car, ostentatious and red. The driver's side door
was open, and Julian himself was stepping out, his youthful, handsome face a
comical mask of sheer, unadulterated shock. But it was the woman emerging from
the passenger seat that caused a cold knot to form in Elara's stomach.
Vivian Grays.
Of course. It was always Vivian, a spectre from a past life that refused
to stay buried.
Silas's voice, a low and intimate murmur that was meant for her ears
only, broke the spell. "Go on to the office, Elly. I'll meet you there
shortly."
She turned to him, and for a fleeting second, their eyes met. In the
depths of his grey gaze, she saw no surprise, only a cool, calculating calm. He
had expected this, or something like it. She offered a small, private smile, a
silent acknowledgment of the unspoken game they were now both playing.
"Don't be long," she whispered, before turning and walking away, her
head held high, feeling the weight of Vivian's stare burning into her back.
The distance between the two cars was negligible, a gulf of asphalt and
unspoken rivalries. Julian, recovering his composure, quickly strode over, his
posture rigid with a respect that bordered on fear. Vivian trailed behind him
like a nervous, beautifully dressed shadow, her designer heels clicking a
frantic tattoo against the pavement.
"Father," Julian began, his eyes doing a quick, involuntary
sweep of the man from head to toe. Steven Cohen had sworn on his life that
Silas had taken a bullet, that he'd been weak, vulnerable. But standing there,
enveloped in a charcoal overcoat that emphasised his broad shoulders, Silas
Thorne looked every bit the untouchable king of Ashbourne. He looked…
invincible. "What are you doing here?"
Silas's lips thinned into a humourless line. The air around him seemed
to grow colder. "I own the building, Julian. Do I need to file an
itinerary with you?"
The verbal slap was sharp, precise, and delivered with the effortless
authority that was uniquely his. Julian's jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked
in his cheek. His hands curled into impotent fists at his sides. He had no
right to question him. He never did.
Sensing the dangerous shift in Silas's mood, Julian gestured vaguely
toward Vivian, who was wringing her hands. "Carpo John needs a portfolio
of documents couriered to Oakhaven. He insisted I handle it personally.
Security protocol." He then shoved his hands in his pockets, his tone
dripping with dismissive annoyance. "And Vivian... she has a doctor's
appointment. The baby. She insisted I come."
He made it sound like the most tedious chore imaginable. Vivian, hearing
his tone, flinched as if struck. She had spent the entire morning begging him,
her voice a desperate plea. 'This isn't just my child, Julian,' she had
whispered, her hand on her still-flat stomach. 'It's your heir. Your claim to
the Thorne legacy. People need to see you are invested, that you care about
your future. It strengthens your position.'
And now, of all the rotten luck, they had run into the one man whose
mere opinion could shatter all their carefully laid plans into dust.
Silas's sharp, dissecting gaze cut to Vivian, making her feel
transparent, like a cheap forgery under the gaze of a master appraiser. His
eyes lingered on her for a moment too long before returning to his son.
"Elly mentioned yesterday that you're eager to make an honest woman of
her." His voice was a low rumble, devoid of any paternal warmth. It was a
statement, a challenge.
Vivian's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a
gilded cage. This was it. Her future, the legitimacy of her child, the very key
to the gilded life she craved—it all hung on Julian's next words.
Under the immense, crushing weight of his father's stare, Julian
hesitated. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. For a heart-stopping
second, Vivian was sure he would deny it. But then, he forced a stiff nod.
"Yes. She's carrying my child. I'm… doing the right thing."
The confirmation was like a shot of pure adrenaline to Vivian's system.
She allowed herself a small, shaky breath, the tension in her shoulders easing
minutely. She had won this round.
"Have you thought it through?" Silas's voice was deceptively
soft, a stark contrast to the stormy intensity in his eyes. He took a half-step
closer, his presence overwhelming. "Will you not regret it later?"
The question hung in the air between them, loaded and dangerous, a
landmine disguised as paternal concern. Regret? A bitter, acrid taste filled
Julian's mouth. Of course he regretted it. He regretted ever laying eyes on
Vivian Grays. He regretted the drunken night that had bound him to her forever.
Most of all, he regretted that the woman he truly wanted—the one with fire in
her eyes and a spirit that challenged his own—was now walking into the
Aeternum, his father's company.
But he swallowed the acid rising in his throat. He had to be strategic.
This child, for all the complications it brought, was a pawn he needed on the
board. "I've thought it through," he repeated, his voice hollow.
"I have to take responsibility."
A flicker of something unreadable—amusement, contempt, perhaps a mixture
of both—passed through Silas's eyes. "Quite the responsible man," he
mused, the words laced with a subtle, cutting irony that only he and Julian
could fully appreciate. It was a private joke at his son's expense. "Very
well. I'll speak to Old Lady Thorne. She can arrange the wedding."
"Thank you, Dad," Julian said, the tension in his shoulders
easing a fraction. A foothold. He had gained a foothold. "But there's no
need for a big ceremony. We'll just sign the papers. Given her... condition...
it's simpler. Discreet."
"As you wish." Silas fastened the buttons of his overcoat with
a single, fluid motion, the gesture one of unmistakable finality. The matter
was settled. "Once this is settled, return to Oakhaven. Carpo John will
have work for you." His gaze hardened, pinning Julian in place. "Pay
attention. Learn everything he has to teach. Do not disappoint me."
Julian's eyes widened, a spark of genuine, unfeigned excitement breaking
through his sullen facade. Carpo John oversaw the Winslow family's entire
dockyard operations—the very heart of their import/export empire and, more
importantly, the logistics for their arms shipments. This wasn't a dismissal;
it was an invitation into the inner sanctum, a test of his worthiness.
"Yes, Father. I will. I won't let you down."
With a final, curt nod that was both a dismissal and a command, Silas
turned on his heel. "I'll go meet Elara."
He strode toward the gleaming glass doors of the skyscraper, Ben falling
into step behind him like a shadow. The two men left Julian and Vivian standing
in the sudden silence, the space between them now charged with a new kind of
tension.
The moment Silas disappeared into the building, Vivian's carefully
constructed composure cracked. She rushed forward and clutched at Julian's arm,
her fingers digging into the fine wool of his coat. "Julian...
Oakhaven?" Her voice was a desperate, breathy whisper. "You can't
leave me here alone! What am I supposed to do? Sit in that empty apartment and
wait for you?"
He looked down at her hand on his arm as if it were a contaminant. With
a grimace of disgust, he roughly shook off her grip. "We'll see when the
time comes," he bit out, his voice cold and distant.
"But you promised!" she pleaded, tears welling in her expertly
lined eyes, clinging to her curled, false lashes. She was playing the only card
she had left: the damsel in distress. "You said you'd come to the
appointment with me. I'm scared to go alone. What if something's wrong?"
He finally turned his head, and the look in his eyes made her blood run
cold. There was no warmth, no concern, only a profound and weary resentment.
"I said, wait here," he snapped, his voice low and dangerous.
"Don't make a scene. I have to get the documents for Carpo John."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing
on the pavement as he headed for the entrance his father had just taken. He
left her standing alone in the vast, impersonal parking lot, the cold wind
whipping at her designer dress. The victory of her secured engagement felt
hollow, fragile, and bitterly cold. She was going to be Mrs. Julian Thorne, but
as she watched the back of her future husband disappear, she felt more alone
than she ever had in her life.
Inside the sterile, modern elevator, Julian leaned his head back against
the cool metal wall and closed his eyes. The image of Elara's small, trusting
smile as she looked up at his father was burned into the back of his eyelids.
He had lost her. Truly, completely, and finally. And in her place, he was
getting Vivian and a political alliance disguised as a marriage. The irony was
a poison in his veins. He slammed his fist against the elevator wall, the dull
thud a pathetic echo of his fury. He was doing the "right thing," and
it felt like signing his own life sentence.