New Year's cheer exploded across Ashbourne in a riot of lights and
colour, a garish counterpoint to the gloom clinging to the Hayes estate. Inside
the imposing gates, preparations for Reginald Hayes's funeral unfolded with
grim efficiency. Though deliberately low-key, the steady stream of Ashbourne's
elite arriving in sleek black cars offered a silent testament to the lingering
weight of the Hayes name. Power, it seemed, always paid its respects.
An Arctic wind, sharp as broken glass, scoured the grounds. Elara Hayes
stood rigidly at the outdoor ceremony, her thick down jacket useless against
the cold that seeped into her bones. Each gust stole her breath, leaving the
taste of frost and grief in her mouth. Her stomach churned, hollow and
rebellious. The past days blurred into a haze of grim arrangements and
suffocating loss; food felt like swallowing gravel. Her grandfather was gone.
The sight of Julian Thorne arriving sent a jolt through her exhaustion.
Seeing Ethan, Silas Thorne's imposing bodyguard, shadowing him was an even
greater shock. Ghosts from a life she'd tried to bury.
"My condolences, Elara." Julian's voice was rough, scraped
raw. The black coat hung loosely on his frame; grief, or something darker, had
carved new hollows beneath his eyes. He looked diminished, a stark contrast to
the polished heir she'd once known. The use of her full name – formal, correct,
devoid of the familiar Elly – landed like a deliberate wedge between them. It
was painfully distant, a reminder of the chasm that had opened since their
breakup. "Thank you, Julian," she managed, her own voice a dry
whisper, deliberately omitting his last name in a small, hollow echo of his
forced propriety. "Take care of yourself." His dark, troubled gaze
lingered on her pallor – regret, concern, something else? – flickering in their
depths. The solemnity held him back, trapping whatever else he might have said.
With a final, quiet plea hanging unspoken in the air, he moved towards the
hearth, leaving only the cold imprint of their unresolved history and the stark
absence of Elly.
"Miss Hayes." Ethan stepped forward, his imposing frame
consciously restrained and his typically sharp demeanour replaced by an
uncharacteristically grave solemnity as Silas Thorne's emissary. "Mr.
Silas Thorne asked me to convey his sincerest condolences." He paused,
ensuring her full attention, his gaze steady and unusually grave. "He
was... quite insistent on the phrasing. His exact words were: 'Don't drown in
the sorrow, Elara.'" Ethan's deep voice softened slightly, almost
imperceptibly, on her name, lending Silas's directive an unexpected intimacy.
"'Eat. Drink. Look after yourself. That's paramount.'" He held her
gaze, the weight of Silas's concern palpable in his solemn expression. "He
also instructed me to say..." Ethan paused again, emphasising the next
words, "...'If the weight becomes unbearable, Elara, you know where to
find me.'"
Silas Thorne. The name hit with visceral impact. Ethan delivered
the message with Silas's authority, then turned away without a glance towards
the hall. He hadn't come for the ceremony; he'd come solely as Silas Thorne's proxy.
The distinction was chillingly clear.
An inexplicable warmth flickered in her chest – fragile, bewildering,
coming from such an unexpected source. It vanished instantly under the scrutiny
of the next wave of arriving guests, their curious stares burning into her
back. Julian Thorne and Silas Thorne's personal bodyguard, paying respects
specifically to her? Whispers bloomed like toxic weeds, their speculative
weight pressing down.
Robert Hayes, presiding with practised solemnity, caught the exchange.
His gaze, when it flickered to Elara, sharpened – calculating, reassessing her
value through the haze of her exhaustion.
"Ugh, she said they were over," Bianca hissed venomously
beside Claire. Jealousy twisted her perfectly made-up face. "Look at
Julian showing up! And his father sending his attack dog? It's obviously
because of her. Pathetic. Still clinging to the Thornes like a leech."
Claire's eyes narrowed. "Bianca, keep your voice down. Think about
the will..."
"Exactly!" Bianca's fingers dug into Claire's sleeve, her
voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Mum, what if she does reel Julian
back in? Marries him just to lock down Grandfather's shares? Dad would probably
hand her the company on a platter to stay in Silas Thorne's good graces! She
gets Julian and Grandfather's legacy? It's obscene!"
A cold, knowing smile touched Claire's lips. "Relax, darling. It
won't happen. Vivian Grays wasn't spinning tales. Julian has... distractions
elsewhere. Elara's pride won't stomach it. She's her mother's daughter – sees
one flaw and throws the whole prince away." Her predatory gaze slid
towards Elara. "That stubborn pride. It'll be her undoing." Bianca's
eyes glittered with cruel excitement. Vivian was right. A vindictive plan began
to crystallise, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips.
The oppressive silence of mourning vanished from the Hayes villa after
Reginald's burial, banished by Bianca and Claire's jarring transformation.
Sombre drapes gave way to garlands, glittering baubles, and blinding lights
that screamed forced festivity. New Year demanded celebration, grief be damned.
For Elara, it meant indentured servitude. Bianca, relishing her petty
power, issued commands with malicious glee. "Elara! Garden lights.
Crooked. Fix them. Now." "Elara! Foyer chandelier. Dull. Polish every
crystal. Properly." "Elara! Attic. Disgrace. Sort it. Today."
Menial, exhausting, degrading tasks piled onto her shoulders. Enduring the
biting cold, the suffocating dust of forgotten corners, the grime Bianca
conjured – Elara gritted her teeth. The image of her parents' locked box was
her only anchor, Bianca the spiteful warden holding the key.
On New Year's Eve, as the aroma of roasting meat and forced laughter
choked the house, Elara's frayed patience snapped. She descended the stairs not
for dinner, but for war.
Only Claire and Bianca, preening like exotic birds, sat at the gleaming
dining table amidst the festive spread. Robert hadn't yet appeared.
"Bianca." Elara's voice cut through the brittle cheer, cold
and sharp as the wind outside. "When do I get my parents' box?"
Claire's head snapped up, expression hardening. "Elara! Must you start
this now? On New Year's Eve? Your grandfather's barely laid to rest! Where is
your respect? Your consideration?" Her tone dripped censure.
"Respect?" Elara's laugh was brittle. Her icy gaze locked onto
Bianca, ignoring Claire. "I'm not starting anything. She pushed me here.
Give me the box, and I vanish. Enjoy your perfect New Year in peace."
Bianca leaned back, arms crossed, radiating smug disdain. "What a dreary
little rain cloud. I told you. When you stop being such a burden, when you
actually make me happy... maybe I'll consider it. Right now?" She waved a
dismissive hand. "Looking at that pathetic, sour face? It's ruining the
ambiance."
Elara's knuckles whitened. She took a deliberate step forward, her voice
dropping to dangerous calm. "It's not even here, is it? You never had it.
You lied." She'd risked searching Bianca's room during her endless chores.
No locks, no hidden compartments. Just mess. The box was a phantom. Bianca's
smug mask slipped for a heartbeat – panic flashing – before she jutted her chin
higher.
"Believe whatever pathetic fantasy helps you sleep. Doesn't change
my reality." The silence thickened. Elara exhaled slowly, the fight
draining, replaced by icy calculation. "Fine. Deal, Bianca." Interest
warred with suspicion. "A deal? With you? Amusing. Let's hear it."
"I know," Elara stated, her voice flat, stripped bare, "you're
choking on rage about Grandfather's will. You think I have no right. That
everything Hayes belongs to you. Am I wrong?"
"Damn right you're not!" Bianca surged to her feet, resentment
boiling over. "Your father walked away! You're charity! A pity case my
father tolerates! This house? The company? Grandfather's legacy? Mine! He was
confused! Manipulated! It's all mine!"
"Then take it," Elara said, the words dropping like stones.
Bianca froze mid-rant. Claire's lips parted. "Take the inheritance,"
Elara repeated, gaze unflinching. "All of it. Every share Grandfather left
me. In exchange, you return my parents' belongings." Bianca gaped. Hope
warred with deep distrust.
"You... you're lying. The will has conditions! You can't just sign
it away!" "I'm deadly serious," Elara countered, her voice
glacial steel. "Once I marry, and the will activates, I sign every share
over to you. All twenty percent." She let the staggering offer hang.
"But first... proof. Show me the box. Prove it exists. Prove you have
it."
Greed shimmered in Bianca's eyes. Claire leaned forward, sharp.
"Marry? Who? Don't be foolish, Elara. The will stipulates Robert's
approval." "That," Elara met Claire's gaze head-on, defiance
sparking in her exhaustion, "isn't your concern. I will marry. I will gain
the inheritance. And I will trade it to Bianca." She shifted her stare
back, challenging. "Twenty percent of Hayes Corporation. Is it worth
showing me the box?"
"Nonsense!" The roar shattered the silence. Robert Hayes,
propelled into the room by an attendant, his face dark with fury. His
wheelchair commanded the space. His glare silenced Claire and Bianca instantly
before settling on Elara with profound, theatrical disappointment.
"That inheritance was Reginald's final gift to you, Elara! A
legacy! An amends for the past!" His voice boomed, heavy with reproach.
"He stipulated marriage to secure your future! And you treat it like...
like a pawn? Some trinket to be bartered?" He shook his head, the wounded
patriarch. "Marriage is a sacred bond, Elara. Not a transaction! Who could
you possibly have found, so suddenly, that makes this... this farce
acceptable?" Elara lowered her gaze, not in submission, but to hide the
scalding contempt. Sacred bond? Like her parents' vows, abandoned by this
family? Like her mother's pleas met with Reginald's cold rejection? Every
crushing detail was etched into her soul. When she looked up, her eyes were
clear, cold, terrifyingly resolute. She met Robert's furious gaze without
flinching, her voice ringing with chilling certainty.
"Uncle Robert," she stated, emphasising the title with icy
precision, "I have found someone. He may not be the candidate you
envisioned..." A ghost of determination flickered in her eyes.
"...but I assure you, you will be satisfied." She turned her stare
back towards Bianca, the unspoken challenge hanging like a blade. The deal was
laid bare. The gauntlet thrown. The path forward, paved with desperation and a
perilous gamble into the unknown, stretched before her, terrifyingly clear. The
Thornes' shadow – Julian's presence, Silas's unsettling message – loomed larger
than ever.