The weight of Thorne family history pressed down on the old mansion like the deepening autumn chill. Julian had just settled his grandmother for her afternoon rest when his phone buzzed – a jagged sound tearing through the heavy silence. The name flashing on the screen sent pure disgust coiling through him. Vivian. He hesitated, thumb hovering, then tapped the message.
His face froze. Blood drained away as if he'd been plunged into ice. His knuckles whitened, the phone groaning in his crushing grip. The photo hit him like a physical blow: Elara and Vivian, cheeks flushed with wine, heads tilted together in laughter. The backdrop was unmistakable: his dining room at the Pansy Garden flat. On the table, two half-empty glasses of red wine. One was the glass he'd used last night.
More images flooded in – intimate, tipsy selfies that screamed of a closeness that turned Julian's stomach.
Vivian: [Image: Elara & Vivian grinning, wine glasses raised]
Vivian: Who wore it better? Me or your precious Elara?
Vivian: [Image: A lacy black thong held coyly near the sofa]
Vivian: Oopsie! She spotted these on YOUR sofa. Good thing I snatched 'em up before she realiser they weren't hers. Whose little secret are they, Jules?
Ice-cold fury locked Julian's muscles. The plastic casing of the phone creaked ominously. "You stupid, reckless..." he breathed, the words sharp as shattered glass. "...You're digging your own damn grave."
He stabbed Vivian's number. The call tone – a harsh, electronic pulse – drilled into his skull, mirroring his rage. It rang. And rang. Agonising seconds stretched, letting the fury build into something volcanic. Finally, a click.
Julian's voice was a low, dangerous rasp that scraped the quiet of the corridor raw. "Did that warning mean nothing to you? What part of 'stay away from Elara' was unclear?" Silence pulsed for a beat on the other end. "What the hell were you thinking, bringing her there? Who exactly are you trying to burn, Vivian? Because I promise you," his voice dropped to a near-whisper, vibrating with menace, "you won't like how this fire feels."
"Don't get the wrong idea, darling," Vivian purred, the sound like poisoned honey dripping over steel. Julian could practically see the smirk twisting her lips, the way her finger idly twirled a strand of hair. "Your precious little Elara practically begged to celebrate my new move-in. We're soul sisters now, you know?" A soft, mocking laugh vibrated down the line, sharp as claws. "Couldn't crush her enthusiasm, could I? Don't worry your pretty head. She hasn't figured out our... arrangement... yet." Her voice dropped, thick with insinuation. "Though she did get an eyeful of those little souvenirs you left all over me last night... and the panties? Quite the conversation starter."
Julian stood frozen in the shadowed courtyard corridor. Her laughter, rich with cruel triumph, washed over him. He gripped the ancient railing until the carved wood bit deep into his palm, the physical pain a counterpoint to the white-hot chagrin flooding his veins. Stupid. Answering her call last night was a mistake that now felt like a branding iron searing his conscience. The image of Elara – trusting, radiant, smiling beside this venomous serpent – twisted his gut with guilt so sharp it felt like glass shards tearing him apart.
"Last night," he ground out, each syllable chipped from ice and fury, "was the end. I won't step foot in that flat again. And listen very carefully, Vivian." His voice dropped to a lethal whisper that vibrated with promise. "If a single syllable of this reaches Elara, I will erase every trace of you from Ashbourne. Permanently. And you really won't like my methods."
Click. The line went dead.
Vivian's finger, still tangled in her hair, froze mid-twirl. The smile blooming across her stunning face held no warmth—only glacial mockery and the terrifying flicker of something truly unhinged in her eyes. Finished enjoying me? Think you can just toss me aside like garbage? The thought crystallised into diamond-hard resolve. Fine. Scorched earth it is. Her knuckles whitened around her phone, plastic groaning under the pressure. If I can't have you, Julian Thorne, then you and your perfect Elara will burn to cinders with me.
Wind whipped across the third-floor terrace, carrying the last echoes of Julian's roaring G-Wagon as it vanished down the drive. Ethan leaned against the icy, ornate railing, arms crossed, tracking the dark blur until it disappeared. He turned slightly, the movement stiff against the cold, to face the figure seated at the terrace's heart.
Silas Thorne didn't merely occupy the massive wrought-iron chair; he anchored the space like a monolith. The biting wind seemed to part around him, leaving him untouched as he sipped tea from impossibly fine porcelain. Below, the shadowed gardens lay like a chessboard, his heirs mere pawns scurrying in the dusk. To Ethan, Silas looked less like a man and more like a vulture carved from stone, surveying a dying kingdom from his weathered throne – the last king waiting for the final embers to cool.
"Mr. Thorne," Ethan ventured, curiosity warring with the instinct to stay silent. The cold gnawed through his own coat. "You're just... going to let this play out?" He gestured vaguely towards the empty driveway.
Silas lowered his cup. The faintest clink of china sounded unnaturally loud. He didn't look at Ethan, instead rubbing his temples with thumb and forefinger. The brief exposure to the terrace chill had ignited a familiar, dull throb behind his eyes – Time's relentless, unwelcome signature. "'Intervene,'" Silas echoed, his deep voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Define it for me, Ethan. What precise action would you have me take?"
Ethan's mouth went dry. Suggest he lock Julian up? Cut him off? Order a hit on Vivian? Each option felt like signing his own professional death warrant. He shifted his weight, the cold stone biting through his shoes. "It's not just about the woman, sir," he said finally, his tone shifting from cautious observer to cold assessor. "If the heir apparent can't control one entanglement... how can he possibly control an empire?" The unspoken question hung heavy in the frigid air: Is Julian Thorne fit to lead?
Silas's head turned slowly. His gaze, sharp as flint and just as hard, locked onto Ethan. It wasn't a dismissal, nor anger. It was the focused, unnerving stare of a predator evaluating new prey – or a potential tool. He said nothing, waiting.
The wind carved through Ethan's coat like a blade. He held Silas's flint-hard gaze, the silence between them brittle. "Frankly, sir?" Ethan's breath misted in the frigid air. "This legacy? Only you've earned the right to bear it."
He caught the dangerous shift in Silas's eyes – not anger, but the glacial impatience of a predator interrupted. Ethan barrelled on, words tumbling like loose stones. "But Julian's your blood. The only Thorne heir—"
Silas's eyes darkened to the colour of rain-slicked grave dirt. "Your usefulness is fraying, Ethan," he breathed, the words curling like tomb vapour. "Do not force me to cut the thread. Disappear."
Ethan dipped his chin, a sliver of genuine chagrin piercing his blunt armour. "Apologies. My tongue outruns my sense. You know it."
"Then have it sewn. Shut." Each word was an ice chip dropped onto stone. Silas rose from the wrought-iron throne with the deliberate, terrifying grace of a landslide beginning. He didn't look back. "Make yourself useful. Watch. Everything. Every. Whisper. Every. Move."
The terrace door swallowed him whole, sealing Ethan into the suffocating cold. Ethan stared at the void where power had stood. His fingers traced his stubbled jaw like a cartographer mapping ruin. Why? The question crystallised, sharp as frost. Why does Silas guard Elara Hayes like a dragon hoarding gold, while his own heir runs wild? A wry smirk touched Ethan's lips, bitter as the wind. Even stone cracks for beauty. Every conqueror, it seems, has his one fatal flaw. No lord Unscathed.
Elara stumbled back from Vivian's flat wrapped in a fog of overpriced burgundy and creeping dread. Sleep dragged her under swiftly, but offered no peace. Only the dream.
She was twelve again.
Trapped in the suffocating, dripping dark of the cave. The air hung thick with the stench of wet earth and something deeper, older – decay. Pain mapped her small body: the sickening throb of her ruined ankle, the bone-deep ache from the fall, the terrifying tremors that alternated between scalding fever and clammy, soul-deep chills. Consciousness was a guttering candle. The shadows at the edge of the lamplight beckoned, soft and welcoming, promising her parents' embrace.
Thud. Jolt.
Something hard tapped—no, jolted—her back. She blinked, vision swimming in the gloom. And saw him. A young man, impossibly pristine in a stark white leisure suit, a beacon of arrogant cleanliness against the cave's grime. Recognition flickered. Her uncle had pointed him out once in Oakhaven Circle, voice hushed: Mr. Thorne. Crown prince. Sole heir to everything that matters. She remembered the ice in his eyes as he'd coldly dismissed a supplicant.
But the eyes locking onto hers now held no ice. Only fierce, burning determination. He frowned, ignoring the mud caking her torn clothes, and hauled her limp body onto his back. His frame was lean, adolescent, yet surprisingly strong. Every jarring step sent fresh agony screaming through her ankle, rattling her teeth. His breath came in sharp, strained gasps as he navigated the treacherous, uneven floor. "Stay awake," he commanded, his voice tight, raw with effort. "Do not close your eyes. Look at the light."
A blinding, searing sliver of daylight speared the oppressive darkness just as her last shred of strength dissolved. She slumped into nothingness. Faintly, echoing from an impossible distance, a voice cut through the void: A young man's voice vibrating with effortless authority, imprinting itself on her fading mind: "Well done." Two words. Simple praise. Yet they echoed with a strange, chilling weight in the abyss.
Elara awoke with a gasp, clawing at the sheets. The dream clung to her – visceral, undeniable. The cave's damp chill still ghosted her skin. She could feel the strain in the young man's muscles, the solid warmth of his back beneath her cheek. And that voice...
Julian's father.
The thought surfaced, unbidden. Silas Thorne? But a wave of cold doubt washed over her immediate certainty. Had Silas Thorne truly been there? Standing at the mouth of that cave like a stone sentinel? The realisation sent a shiver down her spine, cold and sharp, that had nothing to do with the morning air.
The days that followed settled into an uneasy calm. Julian didn't call, but his presence was a constant barrage of messages – mundane updates, reminders about the encroaching cold, admonishments to rest, to wrap up warm. It was a simulacrum of closeness, a digital vigil that felt increasingly hollow.
Finally, on Tuesday night, his face appeared on her screen. Days without seeing him had etched new lines around his eyes. He looked haggard, older; a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, stripping away the last vestiges of boyish charm and leaving stark, weary maturity.
"Elly," he began, his voice cautious, tentative. The vulnerability in his eyes was almost painful. "Remember our date tomorrow?"
A wave of sour melancholy washed over Elara. She forced a small nod. "Of course I haven't forgotten. It's important."
Relief visibly softened the tension in his face. "Good. I'll pick you up in the morning?" His smile was gentle, hopeful. "I've planned the whole day."
Elara hesitated, the words catching for a split second. "Okay," she said softly. "I'll text you my new address."
"..." His hopeful smile faltered, then vanished into stunned silence.
Wednesday morning bit with teeth of frost. At half past ten, Elara stepped out of her building, the wind slapping her face like an insult. Even bundled in her thickest down jacket, the cold seeped into her bones. Julian leaned against the hulking black Mercedes G-Wagon, the engine rumbling softly. He looked up as she hurried towards him, neck scrunched deep into her collar.
"Jesus, Elly, it's freezing," he muttered, concern momentarily overriding his evident displeasure. He unwound his own scarf, a soft cashmere blend, and wound it carefully around her neck and lower face, his fingers brushing her chilled skin. "You moved here? This place is a dump. Ancient, probably no proper heating, god knows who your neighbours are..." His voice rose, frustration bleeding through. "This isn't acceptable. You're moving out. Today. I'll find you somewhere decent, or you come stay with me—"
Elara peeled the scarf away from her mouth, meeting his worried scowl with a raised eyebrow. "People live here, Julian. Perfectly well. There is heating. Chloe's with me, we're fine. Stop fussing." She injected a lightness she didn't feel.
The mention of Chloe deepened the furrow between Julian's brows, but Elara's visible discomfort stopped his protest. Her nose was already red from the brief exposure. "Get in the car," he ordered, the command softened by worry. He guided her firmly by the shoulders, opening the passenger door to a welcome blast of warm air.
Elara sighed, unwinding the scarf and unzipping her puffy coat. Julian leaned across to fasten her seatbelt, his movements automatic, his gaze tender. Then his eyes caught on her left wrist, exposed as she pushed up her sleeve. His expression hardened instantly, the tenderness evaporating like mist.
"That bracelet," he said, his voice dangerously soft. His fingers closed around her wrist, not gently. "It's... striking. When did you get it?"
Elara blinked, surprised by the intensity of his grip. "Vivian gave it to me," she explained, a flicker of unease starting in her chest. "She got matching ones on a trip with her boyfriend to Oakhaven."
As the words left her lips, Julian's grip tightened painfully. She gasped, looking up in startled confusion. His head was slightly bowed, but she saw it – a flash of pure, unadulterated fury in his light brown eyes, a chilling cruelty that hadn't yet been masked.
"Julian?" Her voice was small, laced with sudden fear.
He lifted his head. Fury still banked in his eyes—unmistakable, yet warring with desperate guilt. The warm car thickened, suffocating. Elara's heart rabbited against her ribs. A wave of icy fear flooded her veins, colder than the winter beyond the glass. Every nerve screamed.