Elara hesitated outside the study, her palm hovering over
the cool, polished oak. She drew a steadying breath, the air suddenly thick,
before rapping her knuckles softly against the wood.
"Come in." Silas's voice, a low vibration that
seemed to resonate through the heavy door, sent an unwelcome shiver down her
spine.
Pushing the door open, Elara froze. The man behind the
imposing vintage desk wasn't the sharp-suited predator she expected. Silas
Thorne, bathed in the soft light from a desk lamp, wore a charcoal cashmere
cardigan over a crisp white shirt. Gold-rimmed glasses, delicate chains
glinting, perched on his aristocratic nose as he sketched with focused
intensity. The transformation was jarring – cold authority replaced by an
elegant, almost scholarly allure that radiated a potent, dangerous charm. He
looks… disturbingly compelling.
Her breath caught. Focus, Elara.
"Did you need something?" Silas glanced up. The
lenses magnified his striking peach blossom eyes, making his gaze feel like a
physical touch, stripping away her composure.
Flustered, Elara dropped her eyes to the strong line of his
jaw. "Silas, I wanted—"
"Not 'Mr. Thorne'?" He arched a single, dark brow,
setting aside an expensive-looking fountain pen. He leaned back, the leather
chair sighing, and regarded her with open amusement – a powerful man utterly at
ease. "To what do I owe the… familiarity?"
Heat flooded Elara's neck. She summoned a saccharine smile,
sharp as broken glass. "Would you prefer 'Mr. Thorne'? Or perhaps…
Uncle?" She injected the word with deliberate venom, emphasising the chasm
of years and betrayal between their families. "Mr. Thorne," she
repeated, her voice honey-light, dimples flashing in a performance of sweetness
that erased her recent sorrow. It was a challenge, pure and simple.
A spark, hot and dangerous, ignited in Silas's eyes. A low
chuckle, rich with exasperation and something perilously close to admiration,
rumbled from his chest. He unhooked the glasses, letting them hang against the
fine wool of his cardigan like a pendant, and rose to his full height.
Elara instinctively stumbled back a step, every muscle
coiling tight. Her wide eyes tracked him like a cornered doe watching a
stalking wolf.
He stopped just beyond arm's reach, a faint, knowing smirk
touching his lips. "Cautious little wildcat, aren't you?"
"Anyone with sense would be wary of you," Elara
shot back, tilting her chin up in defiance. "Does anything ever scare
you?"
Silas slid his hands into his trouser pockets, his gaze
turning distant, thoughtful. "Occasionally," he conceded, his voice
low, the usual commanding edge softened almost imperceptibly. Guns? Bullets?
Mere tools, rarely stirring more than calculation. The only time true fear ever
took root... The memory surfaced, sharp and unwelcome – her face, the
crushing void of her loss. A profound shadow darkened his features, the raw
pain flickering in his eyes for a split second before being ruthlessly banked.
The silence that followed wasn't just quiet; it was thick, charged with the
weight of the vulnerability he hadn't spoken.
Elara seized the opening like a drowning woman grabbing a
rope. "The roads are clear!" she blurted, her voice jarringly loud in
the charged stillness. "Can Ethan take me home? Now?"
The moment shattered. Silas's expression smoothed into
impassive granite. "Of course." He turned, snatched his phone, and
issued a curt, calm command. Hanging up, he opened a drawer and retrieved a
single, sleek black business card edged in subtle gilt. He held it out, his
pale fingers stark against the dark surface. "Ethan's waiting. My direct
line is on that. If you find yourself in a corner you can't escape… use
it."
Elara's gaze locked onto the card. It felt different from
the one Ethan gave her – heavier, more intimate, a tangible piece of his
formidable world offered directly. Hesitantly, her fingers brushed his as she
took it. "Thank you."
A knowing glint, sharp as a shard of ice, lit Silas's eyes.
"See that it finds a safer home than the nearest wastebasket this
time."
Her ears burned crimson. She snatched the card back, shoving
it deep into her down jacket pocket as if hiding stolen treasure. "I'll be
going," she mumbled, already turning towards the door, desperate for
escape.
Behind her, Silas watched her flustered retreat, a slow,
deeply intrigued smile curving his lips. The sight lingered in his mind long
after the door clicked shut, before he finally turned back to his sketches, the
lines flowing with a new, predatory energy.
The drive down Rosewood Mountain was tomb-silent. Ethan,
uncharacteristically subdued, kept his eyes glued to the slush-covered road.
Only when the sleek car halted before the imposing Hayes manor gates did he
crank down his window as Elara stepped onto the gravel.
"Miss Hayes," he called, a sudden, wolfish grin
splitting his features. "Free advice incoming?"
Elara paused, instantly wary. "What now, Ethan?"
His grin turned feral. "Just sayin'... between
pretty-boy Julian and our Mr. Silas Thorne?" He gave a low whistle.
"Night and day. Silas? That's your caliber." He winked, slammed the
accelerator, and vanished in a spray of slush before she could retort.
Elara stood frozen, Ethan's words detonating in her mind. My
caliber? Silas? Against her will, an image flashed: Silas in his study,
gold-rimmed glasses glinting, that dangerous elegance radiating power. It
brutally superimposed itself over Julian's face. A traitorous whisper hissed: Julian
looks like a boy playing dress-up next to him…
She physically shook her head, dispelling the disloyal
comparison, and shoved through the heavy front door.
The scene in the Hayes living room hit like a sucker punch.
Julian stood trapped between Bianca and Claire's saccharine cooing, their false
sympathy dripping like poison. Robert paced like a caged animal, worry carving
deep trenches on his forehead. Julian looked… broken. His designer facade was
in tatters – eyes bloodshot and hollow, days of stubble darkening a gaunt
jawline, his crumpled shirt reeking of desperation and stale regret.
"Elly!" Julian's voice shattered, raw as an open
wound. He lunged, fingers digging into her shoulders like talons before he
visibly choked back the desperation, forcing a ghastly parody of a smile.
"Jesus, Elly, where the hell were you? Your phone's dead, your apartment's
empty… I've been going out of my fucking mind." The curse tore out of him,
ragged and stripped bare.
"Save your concern," Elara stated, her voice
glacial, unnervingly calm. She wrenched free, her gaze slicing through Bianca
and Claire's hungry stares to spear Robert's anxious face. "Outside.
Now." She didn't wait, turning her back on him like he was already dead to
her.
The desperate hope in Julian's eyes snuffed out. He followed
her into the desolate backyard, where patches of grimy ice clung stubbornly to
the half-thawed ornamental pool. Below the murky surface, oblivious koi darted
through their tiny, ignorant world."
"Elly…" Julian rasped, the word thick with phlegm
and pleading. He grabbed for her hand, his own trembling. "I know… I
destroyed everything. Monumentally. Please… please… give me another
chance?" The raw, naked need in his eyes was pathetic. Weak.
Elara recoiled as if scalded, her gaze freezing him where he
stood. "Another chance? After that?" Her voice remained terrifyingly
level, a scalpel of pure ice. "If you'd stopped loving me, Julian, you
could have said the words. I'd have walked away with my dignity. But
this?" Her lip curled in utter revulsion. "You made me an
idiot."
"I love you" Julian surged forward, desperation
cracking his voice like thin ice. "It was a mistake! A fucking lapse in
judgment, feeling sorry for her! I swear on my mother's grave, it never happens
again! She's gone, wiped out, I'll bury her so deep—"
"And bury the child too?" Elara cut across him,
her voice a whip of arctic wind.
Julian froze. Every drop of blood drained from his face.
"The… the baby…" He swallowed convulsively, his throat working.
"I'll… handle it. That… thing… doesn't deserve light. A bastard whelped by
a scheming slut like Vivian Grays?" The venomous, glacial hatred in his
eyes as he spat Vivian's name was inhuman. Chilling to the bone.
A wave of pure, unadulterated disgust—so potent it choked
her—slammed into Elara. Her fingers locked like a vice around the hard edge of
Silas's card in her pocket, a talisman against the monstrous ruthlessness of
his son. "There is no 'us,' Julian," she stated, her voice forged
steel. "You ended it the second I saw you buried inside her." She
held his gaze, letting him drown in the ocean of her revulsion. "Be
grateful we never slept together. The thought of you touching me after
her?" A violent shudder wracked her frame, the remembered bile scorching
her throat. "It makes me want to claw my skin off."
Julian flinched as if struck, the memory of her retching
hitting him like a physical blow.
"But that's not all," Elara continued, a brittle,
razor-thin smile touching her lips. "There's something I was going to tell
you before I walked in on your little performance."
Julian went utterly still. Dread, cold and suffocating,
coiled tight around his lungs, stealing his breath.
Elara leaned in, her voice dropping to a lethal,
silk-wrapped whisper. "I was going to break up with you."
Julian's breath hitched. A muscle spasmed violently in his
jaw.
"Remember my graduation party?" she pressed,
watching the first flicker of unease ignite in his hollow eyes. "And your
business trip?" She let the implication hang, sharp as a blade.
"Remember the Grand Meridian?" She paused, letting the hotel's name
detonate between them. "That convenient little bump-in the morning after
you flew back…"
Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching, as the colour drained
completely from his face.
"… at the penthouse elevator?"
Julian's eyes widened in pure, unadulterated terror. The
world tilted—