The reality hit Elara the moment she stepped onto the third
floor. The "guest room" Julian's father had so generously offered
wasn't just convenient; it was strategic. Nestled directly beside his imposing
study, with his own bedroom on the study's far side, she felt like a pawn
placed deliberately on his chessboard. Privacy? It felt like an illusion here.
"Miss Hayes?" Martha's gentle voice broke the
silence as she reappeared, holding out a bundle of fabric that shimmered like
captured sunlight. Apricot silk. "Seeing as you and the late Madam share a
similar figure," Martha offered kindly, "I brought these unworn
pyjamas. Hope you don't mind."
The late Madam? Julian's mother? Elara's gaze locked
onto the lustrous material. An icy finger traced her spine. Julian's words
echoed: 'She died when I was very young.' Yet here lay pyjamas, pristine,
untouched, preserved with an almost sacred care. A ghost's wardrobe. The weight
of that silent devotion pressed down on her.
Martha, oblivious to her inner turmoil, offered a reassuring
smile. Everything in the bathroom is brand new, Miss Hayes. Help yourself. I
will leave you to get some rest." With murmured thanks and the soft click
of the door, Elara was alone. Her hand shot out, turning the lock with a
decisive snick.
She stared at the silk pooled on the luxurious duvet. It
looked like liquid gold, beautiful and utterly wrong. Reluctance warred with
grim necessity. The faint, sour tang of vomit still clung to her own clothes –
a humiliating brand of her earlier breakdown. Jaw tight, she snatched the
pyjamas and retreated to the sanctuary of the steamy bathroom.
Later, swathed in fragrant mist, she caught her reflection.
The silk was a revelation. It draped her form perfectly – elegant, simple,
impossibly sophisticated. Her damp curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing a
face flushed from the heat, her eyes wide and luminous in the mirror's glow.
For a heartbeat, she saw someone else – softer, more womanly, the youthful edge
momentarily blurred. Then, the image shattered. A flash of navy blue silk:
Silas, hours before, wrapped in a robe. The same fabric? The same set?
Ice water plunged through her veins. Suddenly, the luxurious
silk wasn't soft; it was a thousand tiny needles pricking her skin. His dead
wife's clothes. His matching set. Every fibre screamed get it off.
She clawed at the neckline, panic rising.
Breathe. Think. Her own clothes were spinning in the
washer downstairs. Sleeping naked? Not an option in his fortress. With a
frustrated groan that echoed in the tiled room, she surrendered. The silk
clung, a constant, uncomfortable reminder as she slipped between the cold
sheets.
Sleep wasn't an escape; it was a battlefield. Visions
crashed over Elara – Julian's tender smile as he slid a diamond onto her finger
beneath a rain of rose petals, the scent heady and sweet. Then, a sickening
lurch. She was frozen, ice flooding her veins, watching him, tangled in sheets
with her. The dream twisted again: she was running through endless corridors,
her raw sobs echoing, "Julian! Please!" He turned, cold as the
mountain stone, Vivian shielded in his arms, a child's face peeking out. His
voice, a shard of Arctic glass, sliced through her: "Open your eyes, Elly.
I never loved you. It was always Vivian. You were just... convenient.
Pitiable." Each dreamscape felt terrifyingly real, a cruel mix of honey
and venom coating her tongue. Dawn finally dragged her back, gasping. The
specific horrors faded like smoke, but the bitter, metallic taste of betrayal
lingered, a poison coating her soul.
She scrambled from the tangled sheets, desperate for light.
Yanking back the heavy curtains, she gasped. Overnight, Rosewood Mountain had
vanished. In its place lay a silent kingdom of pure white, buried under a
thick, untouched blanket. Snowflakes still danced like spectral ballerinas
against the grey sky. Below, a stark counterpoint to the virgin snow, waited
Silas. A solitary, dark shape rooted beneath the burdened strawberry trees – an
undeniable presence in the hushed white world.
He paused, mid-motion. Straightened. Hands planted firmly on
his hips, a conqueror surveying his domain. Then, his head snapped up.
Hawk-sharp eyes, even from this distance, locked onto her window. One hand
lifted, not a wave, but a summons. A single, imperious gesture: Come down.
Elara flinched as if struck. Hell no. She dropped the
curtain like it was electrified and dove back under the duvet, pulling it over
her head. Trapped. Fine. Her new plan: fortress bedroom. Zero contact. Easy.
Silas Thorne, naturally, had other ideas. Barely two minutes
later, a soft knock. Tap. Tap. Tap. Martha's voice, warm honey laced
with unshakeable kindness, filtered through the door. "Miss Hayes?
Breakfast is laid out downstairs whenever you're ready, dear."
"...Okay," Elara croaked out, the word tasting
like defeat. "Coming." She thumped her forehead against her knees. Idiot.
Silas snaps his fingers and you dig in your heels, but one gentle 'dear' from
Martha and you fold like a house of cards. When will you learn?
Dressed in her freshly dried, blessedly familiar clothes,
she crept downstairs like a thief. Relief washed over her in a dizzying wave at
the sight of only Martha in the sunlit dining room. He was blessedly absent.
"Wasn't sure what tickles your fancy this morning,
dear," Martha chirped, setting down a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs.
"Mr. Thorne mentioned you might like the walnut bagel. No rush. He and
Ethan ate ages ago."
Ethan? Elara froze, toast hovering halfway to her
lips. "Ethan's... here? Did he drive back up the mountain this
morning?"
Martha blinked, confused. "Leave? Oh, goodness no, Miss
Hayes. Ethan is Mr. Thorne's shadow, his personal security. He has his own
quarters right here on the estate. Always has."
The toast turned to chalky sawdust in Elara's mouth. Lives
here. The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow: Silas's cool,
dismissive tone last night. "Ethan is off duty and resting."
Resting. Not gone home. Not down the mountain. Here. All night.
The truth detonated. He could have sent Ethan. He had
Ethan RIGHT HERE. He chose to strand me. He lied. White-hot fury ignited in
her chest, a bonfire of indignation. She attacked the innocent walnut bagel
with vicious bites, grinding it between her teeth as if it was Silas Thorne's
infuriatingly smug face. Breakfast didn't stand a chance.
Outside, the winter wonderland glittered, but Elara's eyes
were fixed on the lone figure beneath the snow-draped strawberry trees. Silas
moved with focused intensity, seemingly immune to the biting cold. No coat—just
a loose black turtleneck, sleeves shoved up to reveal corded forearms dusted
with snow. And he was... building a snowman?
Curiosity warred with her simmering anger. Snagging an
umbrella from Martha's stand, Elara plunged into the deep powder, the crunch
loud in the hushed world. She stopped a few feet behind him, watching the
methodical packing of snow. The sharp, clean scent of winter air mixed with
tobacco—a cigarette glowed faintly between his gloved fingers.
"Ever built a snowman?" His voice, a deep rumble
that vibrated in the stillness, didn't startle her. He'd known she was there
all along.
Elara blinked, the unexpected question momentarily dousing
her resentment. Her gaze dropped to the snow clinging to her boots.
"No." The word escaped softly, heavy with an old ache. Her father's
voice, warm with promise, echoed: "One winter, Elly-girl, we'll go back to
Oakhaven. Build a snowman as pretty and sweet as Softy." Ashbourne had
snow, yes. But never that shared laughter, that promised companion. The loss
pinched, fresh and sharp.
"First time for me too." Silas took a final drag,
the ember flaring, then flicked the butt into the pristine snow where it died
with a resentful hiss.
He turned, holding out his palm. Nestled against the
cold-reddened leather of his glove were two perfect, glossy red berries.
"Want to try?"
Elara hesitated, then reached out. Her fingertips brushed
the chill leather as she took the berries. Silas had already rolled two lumpy
spheres – body and head. But props were ready nearby: smooth black pebbles for
eyes, a slender carrot, delicate curls of orange peel.
He took the umbrella from her numb fingers, holding it high
to shield them both. A spark of pure, unexpected delight fizzed in Elara's
chest, momentarily brighter than her anger. She pressed the pebbles deep for
dark, watchful eyes, wedged the carrot firmly into place for a proud nose, and
carefully arranged the orange peel into a lopsided, cheerful grin. But the
snowman's head looked bald, unfinished.
She tilted her head back, gazing up at the vibrant crimson
berries defiant against the snowy branches. Asking him felt wrong, a betrayal
of her fury, but the desire to perfect her creation won. "Could..."
Her voice sounded small. "...could you pick some of those berry blossoms?
For his hair?"
Silas's lips curved, a genuine warmth softening his usually
stern features as he took in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "Of
course." He handed her the umbrella. With effortless strength, he snapped
off several sprigs heavy with ruby-red blooms.
Elara carefully wove the blossoms into a vibrant crown
around the snowman's head. Then, pure impulse took over. She unzipped her
fluffy pink down jacket and draped it around the snowy shoulders. Stepping
back, hands planted on her hips, she surveyed her masterpiece. A real smile,
the first unguarded one in what felt like forever, touched her lips.
Suddenly, his fingers were there—surprisingly gentle. He
hooked a wind-tossed curl behind her right ear. Then came the cool, delicate
press of something tucked into her hair. The faint, intoxicating scent of
winter plum enveloped her.
"Having fun?" His voice was a low murmur, warm
breath grazing the shell of her ear as he leaned down close behind her. The
intimate proximity sent a violent shiver down her spine that had nothing to do
with the cold.
Panic flared. She jerked sideways, desperate to escape the
sudden heat of him, the overwhelming presence. But his hand settled firmly on
her shoulder, turning her around to face him. His gaze, intense and unreadable,
trapped hers. She was caught.
"...Yes," she breathed, the admission torn from
her. Lying about the simple, stolen joy felt impossible.
"Good." Satisfaction glinted in the depths of his
eyes as he studied her face—the high blush, the snowflakes caught in her dark
lashes, the vibrant red berry blossom now nestled like a secret jewel against
her hair. His gaze lingered, possessive, appreciative. He'd put that light in
her eyes.
A heavy silence fell, thick with the soft hush of falling
snow and the frantic hammering of her heart against her ribs. Then Silas spoke,
his voice dropping lower, resonating with a challenge that vibrated in her
bones.
His gaze, dark as a winter storm, held hers captive. Not a flicker of
warmth, only ruthless intent. He leaned closer, the heat radiating from him a
shocking contrast to the frozen air. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous purr
that vibrated straight to her core. "You've slept on it, Elara." A
beat of agonising silence stretched, filled only by the frantic drumming of her
own heart. "Now. Answer me." The command hung heavy, inescapable.
"Will. You. Marry. Me?"