The trio made no move to sit, standing as a united front
against the crumbling matriarch. The past month had not been kind to Old Lady
Thorne. Her silver hair, once meticulously coiffed, hung in a loose, neglected
knot at her nape. The fire in her eyes had been replaced by a cloudy, defeated
haze, shadowed by deep bruises of exhaustion.
Her gaze, sweeping over them, snagged on Elara. The corners
of her mouth turned down in a bitter sneer.
"Send her away," the old woman commanded, her
voice a dry rasp. "This is Thorne family business. It does not concern
outsiders."
Were it not for this girl, this interloper, her plans would
have unfolded perfectly. Julian would have inherited everything. Her secrets
would have remained buried.
Elara didn't give Silas a chance to respond. A cool, cutting
smile graced her lips. "Old Lady Thorne, you seem to be confused. I am
Silas's wife, recognised in the ancestral rites and recorded in the Thorne
family registry. Whereas you..."
She let the pause hang, heavy and deliberate.
"...will soon be expunged from it. So, I ask you again,
who is the outsider here?"
The words, delivered with measured calm, were a
masterstroke. They stole the old woman's breath, leaving her sputtering.
"You... you impudent girl! How dare you?! I am the Old
Lord's lawfully wedded wife! Let's see who dares to disown me!" Her
walking stick struck the stone floor with a sharp crack, the sound echoing her
fracturing composure.
"I am the head of the Thorne household," Silas's
voice cut through her fury, cold and absolute as a guillotine. "Is that
qualification enough?"
The old woman's knuckles turned white on her cane, her chest
heaving with ragged breaths.
"The nature of your relationship with Lysander Cohen,
and the daughter you bore him, Seraphina... need I recount the entire sordid
history?" Silas continued, the words dripping with icy disdain. The memory
of the investigative report made his own blood run cold.
"Since you've uncovered it all, what is left to
say?" she retorted, lifting her chin in a final, feeble show of pride.
"Even as head, you are my flesh and blood. Aside from the old master
himself, no one has the right to judge me."
She was still trying to wield her seniority like a weapon,
but the blade had gone dull.
Elara had heard enough. Her temper, held in check for so
long, finally snapped. "You're right. Only the old patriarch had that
right," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "But he's dead. You'll
have to find him in the next life. Though, at your age, your memory may fail
you. Perhaps you've forgotten—who was it who provoked him on his deathbed and
then pulled out his oxygen tube?"
The air in the chapel froze solid.
"You... you lying little bitch!" The old woman
trembled, her walking stick clattering to the floor.
"Old woman!" Silas's roar was a whip-crack of
authority, making her flinch. "Mary, your devoted maid for twenty years,
has confessed everything. She is Lysander's niece."
The revelation was a physical blow. The matriarch slumped in
her chair, all fight draining from her, her eyes vacant. So that was why Mary
had disappeared.
"Lady Thorne," Arthur's voice was thick with a
grief that bordered on nausea. "I cannot fathom it. After losing
Alistair... how could you do such a thing to Lord Thorne? How could you murder
your own husband?"
The old woman's clouded eyes flickered with a final, wicked
spark. "That old bastard knew about my daughter with Lysander. On his
deathbed, he still threatened to divorce me, to leave me with nothing. I wanted
him dead. He deserved it!" The confession spilled out, not with shame, but
with twisted righteousness. "If he hadn't forced himself on me and
blackmailed me into marriage, Lysander and I would never have been torn apart!
My daughter would never have been taken from me the day she was born!"
"You conceived Seraphina with Lysander not long after
giving birth to Alistair," Silas stated, his gaze freezing her
self-pitying narrative. "You are the only one here who was wronged upon. I
was a fool to ever think, despite your cruelty, that you held any love for me
as your grandson. But I see now I was mistaken."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a deadly
whisper. "I even suspect you once tried to strangle me in my crib, all for
the sake of your first love and your illegitimate daughter."
A telltale flicker in her eyes confirmed his darkest
suspicion.
After Seraphina's birth, she had used postnatal depression
as an excuse to travel, to be with Lysander away from prying eyes. When she
returned, the sight of Alistair's innocent face filled her with such corrosive
rage that she had indeed, in her twisted mind, contemplated smothering him. He
was a chain binding her to a life she despised. That need for absolute,
suffocating control over him later morphed into the madness that ultimately led
to his death, all because he dared to love a woman she disapproved of.
Arthur saw the truth in her eyes. A wave of utter despair
washed over him. He turned to Silas, his voice breaking. "The old lady...
is yours to deal with. Whatever judgment you pass, whatever fate she meets...
she has earned it a thousand times over."
With that, he turned and walked out, not sparing a single
glance for the curses she hurled at his retreating back.
"Shut your mouth, you vile crone!" Elara roared,
her patience shattering. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated scorn.
"You're a poisonous viper! You murdered your husband, orchestrated the
death of your own son and his wife, and plotted against your grandson! You are
lower than any beast! You don't deserve to speak his name!"
The accusation of being worse than a beast was the final
straw. The old woman surged to her feet, a torrent of fury and denial on her
lips, but a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her. She swayed and collapsed back
into her chair, defeated.
Silas reached for Elara's trembling, clenched fist,
enveloping it in his steady grasp. His focus returned to the wretched figure
before him, his voice dangerously calm.
"I want to know two things. When did you discover Elora
was your granddaughter? And when did you learn that Julian was supposedly her
son?"
He needed to know the depth of her deception. If the
investigation was correct—if he and Elora were blood relatives—then every
interaction, every moment of manipulated guilt, was a crime this woman had
orchestrated.
The old matriarch pressed her lips together, a final,
stubborn act of defiance.
Silas released Elara's hand and took a slow, menacing step
forward. "Did Elora know?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a
whisper that promised retribution. "Did she know we were related by
blood?"
His cold, furious eyes pinned her to the chair, demanding
the final, terrible truth.