The thought of Julian coldly urging her to finalise the divorce in
Ashbourne was a poison in Vivian's veins, feeding a hatred that burned
white-hot. But her fury was impotent. Against Julian, against Elara—she was
powerless, a pawn broken by the games of powerful men. Even her own body was
now a ruined testament to her helplessness. The searing pain of the last few
weeks had etched itself into her bones, becoming a permanent part of her, a
constant, agonising reminder.
I will make them pay, she vowed silently, her hands clenching
into fists. Julian, Elara... I will have my vengeance.
With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and dialled Julian's
number. It rang for an eternity before he answered, his voice a cold, hoarse
rasp.
"Have you finally come to your senses?"
"Fine. We'll divorce," Vivian stated, her tone low and
unyielding. "My terms are twenty million in cash and a villa in
Oakhaven."
She would never crawl back to Ashbourne. Staying in Oakhaven was her
only chance to reclaim her life and plot her comeback.
"Twenty million?" Julian's scoff was laced with icy contempt.
"Your appetite is as grand as your delusions. I no longer carry the Thorne
name. Everything has been stripped from me. Where, exactly, am I supposed to
get twenty million for you? And a villa in Oakhaven? Do you even comprehend the
price?"
"A starved camel is still larger than a horse. You'll find a
way," she hissed, gritting her teeth. "Refuse, and I'll drag this
out. Let's see how your future rich heiress feels about a scorned first wife
causing a scene. The price for your freedom will be much higher then."
Her biting sarcasm twisted Julian's features. His voice dropped to a
dangerous freeze. "I have two million. The flat in Ashbourne is yours.
That is more than enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your
miserable life."
"Two million?!" Vivian roared, her composure shattering.
"You ruined me! You think two million is enough to make me disappear?
Listen to me, Julian. If you don't agree to my terms, you will never be free of
me. I have nothing left to lose. I will drag you down to hell with me!"
She took a sharp, ragged breath. "You have three days. I'll be
waiting in Ashbourne. If I don't get what I want, you'll see exactly what I'm
capable of."
She slammed the phone down, her entire body trembling with a rage so
profound it felt like a physical force. Her eyes, dark and glittering, promised
a storm.
The next morning, a world away, Ingrid and Arthur arrived at the
hospital with Annabelle, their mood a bright, celebratory contrast to the gloom
festering in Vivian's ward. The family escorted Elara out, their faces beaming,
and helped her into the waiting car.
Upstairs, Vivian pulled back the curtain just enough to peer down. A
pair of venomous eyes tracked the joyous procession below. The two guards who
had been her jailers for weeks had vanished just half an hour prior. She knew
why. That bitch Elara was going home, so her watchdog of a husband had finally
called off his hounds.
Elara Thorne. The name was a curse on her lips. How could one
woman be so blessed, so protected, while she had lost everything? The envy and
hatred curdled in her stomach, a cold, hard certainty forming in her heart.
Revenge is a dish best served cold, she thought. I will remember every
single slight. And I will repay them all with my own hands.
So lost was she in her bitter fantasies that she didn't hear the door
behind her creak open. Only when it clicked shut did she startle, spinning
around.
"You?" she spat, her eyes wide with surprise and anger.
"What are you doing here?"
The visitor offered a faint, enigmatic smile that didn't reach their
eyes. "Don't be alarmed, Ms. Grays. I'm not here to cause trouble. I've
come to make a deal."
The black motorcade glided to a halt before the grand Winslow villa. As
the family disembarked, Ingrid immediately took Elara's arm, guiding her toward
the entrance with a sense of solemn purpose.
A small, ceremonial brazier, filled with dried grass and fragrant herbs,
burned at the threshold, its flames having settled into a plume of purifying
smoke. This was the ancient rite of saining, a Celtic practice of blessing that
Ingrid invoked to shield Elara from any lingering misfortune.
"Step carefully through the smoke, my dear," Ingrid murmured,
her voice a soft counterpoint to the crackle of the embers. "It carries
the shadows of your ordeal away."
Before Elara could move, Silas's voice, firm and possessive, cut through
the moment. "I have her."
In one smooth motion, he swept Elara into his arms. Her hands
instinctively flew to his neck as he effortlessly stepped over the brazier,
clearing the symbolic barrier with his long strides. Her gaze lingered on the
sharp line of his jaw, a profound warmth spreading through her chest.
Ingrid watched from behind, a mixture of exasperation and fond amusement
on her face. "Don't forget the rest," she reminded him.
Silas didn't set Elara down, merely glancing back. "What
else?"
"I've had
the housekeeper prepare a bay leaf infusion for a cleansing wash," Ingrid
explained, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The water has been steeped
in a copper pot. Take her to your room and have her bathe with it, scrubbing
from head to toe. It will wash away the last of the hospital's staleness and
any ill fortune that dared follow you home." She then turned to the
housekeeper, her instructions final. "And the clothes she is wearing now—take
them and burn them. Do not simply wash them. We must ensure no trace of that
misfortune remains in this house."
"Understood."
With a single, acknowledging word, Silas carried Elara into the house
and toward the elevator, ascending to their private sanctuary.
Watching them disappear, Arthur moved to stand beside Ingrid.
"My love," he said, his voice unusually grave.
Ingrid turned, her eyebrow arched in question. "Hmm?"
"Silas and I must return to Ashbourne tomorrow."
"Have you found something?" Ingrid's expression sharpened
instantly, all softness gone.
Arthur gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yes. And it is... unexpected.
I think it's time the old lady offered a few explanations."
A spark of intense curiosity ignited in Ingrid's eyes. "Come,"
she said, looping her arm through his and steering him toward their rooms.
"You will tell me everything."
In the master bathroom, steam curled from the deep tub filled with
fragrant, bay-leaf-infused water. Elara, now bare, could only roll her eyes as
the shameless man in front of her began to undress with unhurried confidence.
During her hospital stay, she had grown accustomed to his care—first the
hesitant wipe-downs, then his vigilant presence in the bathroom, his watchful
eye always on her, the shower-head often taken from her hand to rinse her hair
with a surprising tenderness.
But this... this deliberate unveiling of his powerful, muscular form was
different. A blush heated her cheeks, spreading down her neck. She quickly
averted her gaze, focusing on stirring the bathwater with a nonchalance she
didn't feel, the aromatic steam doing little to cool the sudden, flustered
warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.