For a moment, the room was frozen. Then, Old Lady Thorne shattered the
silence. She surged to her feet, her frail body trembling with a rage that
seemed to give her new strength. She pointed a bony finger at Silas, her voice
a shrill crack of outrage.
"Silas! How dare you?! I am not yet in my grave! You think you can
cast Julian out without my say? So what if he isn't of our blood? I have raised
him for twenty-two years! He is my great grandson in every way that matters!
Did you even think to consult me?"
"You may be the head of this family, the great Silas Thorne, but do
not forget who I am! I am your grandmother! Your own father, Alistair, knew to
heed my words!"
"You are cold, utterly heartless, to show no feeling for a son you
raised from a boy. But I am not you! I have a heart!"
Her walking stick struck the polished floor with a sharp, definitive
crack.
"This is my decision. Julian may take the Cohen name. He may
forfeit his inheritance rights. But he will not be cast out. He will remain in
this house as my adopted son."
Her venomous gaze swept over Ingrid and Arthur before landing back on
Silas, her eyes blazing with a bitter, possessive fire.
"And you… all of you! You hide Elara's pregnancy from me—your own
matriarch! What game are you playing? Do you find me so disposable? An eyesore
to be swept aside? Are you planning to drive me from my own home next?"
The mention of Elara's pregnancy made Silas's eyes narrow to dangerous
slits. But before he could speak, a voice, cold and clear as shattering ice,
cut through the old woman's tirade.
"You have gone too far, Matriarch."
It was Ingrid. She rose slowly, a panther uncoiling, and stepped
directly into the old lady's line of sight.
The old woman was taken aback by the direct challenge. "What did
you say to me?"
"I said," Ingrid repeated, her voice dripping with a frosty
calm that was more terrifying than any shout, "you have gone too
far."
A torrent of old, festering anger surged within the matriarch. Her son,
her bright, beautiful Alistair, was gone because of Ingrid's sister, Eleanor.
He had been so vibrant, so devoted to her, until that woman had stolen him
away. Her disapproval of their marriage had meant nothing; he had chosen
Eleanor anyway, and it had cost him his life. She had loved her son with a
ferocity that now had no outlet, and she poured all that twisted grief into her
hatred for Ingrid, who had also lost a sister in that same, cursed accident.
"It is none of your concern!" the old lady spat.
"It is every bit my concern," Ingrid countered, her gaze
unwavering. "You have carried the weight of this family for many years.
You must be tired. It is time to let the younger generation manage their own
lives. It is time for you to rest and enjoy the peace of your twilight
years."
The word "rest" was a trigger. It sounded too much like
"retire," like "disappear." Enraged, the old woman acted
without thought, swinging her heavy walking stick directly at Ingrid.
In a flash, Arthur was moving. He stepped in front of his wife, his hand
snapping out to catch the cane mid-air, stopping it dead. The impact echoed in
the stunned silence.
"You… you dare?!" the old lady gasped, her eyes wide with
incredulous fury.
Arthur held the cane firmly, his expression grim. "It is you who
dares. And it is you who must learn when to stop."
He did not release the stick, his grip like iron. His eyes, dark and
full of a painful knowledge, held hers captive.
"From the day I married Ingrid until this very moment, I have been
a witness. A witness to everything you have done."
His words, heavy with unspoken meaning, struck her like a physical blow.
Her mind raced, scrambling to understand what he could possibly mean by
"everything." A cold dread began to creep into her heart.
Seeing the dawning confusion and fear in her aged eyes, Arthur pressed
his advantage, his voice dropping to a grave, deliberate tone.
"Do you remember my brother-in-law, Matriarch?"
The name hung in the air, unspoken but understood by all. Alistair.
"Your own son. Silas's father. The one whose choice of a wife you
so despised."
Alistair Thorne—a man of unwavering will, fiercely independent, who had
loved his wife, Eleanor, with a passion that eclipsed all else, including his
mother's demands. The Old Lady had seen Eleanor as weak, a corrupting influence
who made her son soft and disobedient.
The official story was a tragic car accident. But Arthur, Ingrid, and
the old lady knew the sinister truth.
Alistair had finally had enough. He was preparing to take Eleanor and
their young son, Silas, and leave—to escape her clutches forever and build a
new life across the ocean. When she discovered his plan, her possessive fury
knew no bounds. In a fit of rage, she enlisted the help of her family's
long-standing contacts—the treacherous Cohen family, who specialised in such
dirty work. Her intention was not murder, but a brutal "lesson," and
she knew the Cohens could make a car accident look perfectly innocent. The
subtle adjustments to the vehicle's mechanics were meant to cause a serious
crash, one that would hospitalise them, break their spirit, and force them to
remain under her control forever.
But the carefully calibrated sabotage proved fatally mis-calibrated. The
crash was catastrophic. Alistair and Eleanor were both killed, leaving Silas an
orphan. In relying on the cruelty of her allies, she had set in motion a
tragedy far deadlier than she had ever imagined.
At the mere invocation of that hidden history, the old lady's face went
through a violent transformation—flushing crimson, then draining to a ghostly
white. Her lips trembled, and all her fight seemed to leave her in a rush,
leaving her silent and shrunken.
"Regarding Julian's affairs," Arthur said, his voice firm now
that he saw her break, "you will not interfere. Silas will handle
it."
He delivered the final blow, the sentence that was both her punishment
and her penance. "We will arrange for you to be taken back to Ashbourne.
The family chapel at the ancestral estate has stood empty for too long. You are
advanced in years. You will live there quietly, in contemplation. You will
spend your remaining days tending the chapel… and praying for the prosperity of
the Thorne bloodline you claimed to cherish above all else."
He stared at her, his gaze unforgiving. The pointed command—to worship
the legacy she had helped destroy—turned her face ashen.
"Unfilial wretch!" she hissed, the words a last, desperate
spark.
Arthur offered a bitter, hollow smile. "If I were truly unfilial,
Matriarch, do you think you would have enjoyed decades of comfort and power?
You would have faced justice long ago."
The old woman clutched at her chest, gasping for air as the full weight
of his knowledge crashed down upon her. He knew. He had always known.
Julian watched the entire exchange in silence, a cold sneer forming in
his heart. The mighty matriarch, brought low by her own ghosts. He would be
well rid of her.
Silas's voice, cold and decisive, broke the moment as he spoke into his
phone. "Send a team to escort the Matriarch to the Winslow residence. Book
her on the afternoon flight to Ashbourne."
Arthur interrupted, his tone final. "That won't be necessary. I
will escort the Matriarch myself."
It was time. Time to stop running from this truth. Time to return to
Ashbourne and finally atone to the memory of his brother-in-law.
Ingrid shot him a sharp, questioning look, but said nothing.
Silas ended the call, his gaze lingering on Arthur for a long moment
before shifting to the door. On cue, Ben entered with two imposing bodyguards.
He walked directly to the old lady's side.
"Madam," Ben said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It's
time."
The Old Lady Thorne seemed to have aged a decade in minutes. Her eyes
were clouded, distant. Without a word, Arthur took her arm, his grip firm but
not unkind, and led her from the room. The bodyguards followed, a silent
procession of an era's end.
Julian stood alone, watching them go, his head bowed.
"Whether you stay in Oakhaven or go elsewhere is your choice,"
Silas's voice came from behind him, calm and authoritative. "But remember
this one thing: whatever name you bear, be a man of integrity."
Julian lifted his head, a tight, grateful smile touching his lips.
"Thank you for your guidance. I will remember."
"See that you do." Silas gave a curt nod. "You may go. My
assistant will be in touch about the legalities."
The door closed, leaving the past behind.