The air in Robert Hayes's study crackled, thick with
disbelief and the sour tang of fear. Robert's knuckles were bone-white where
they gripped the wheelchair arms. "Who?" The single word scraped out,
raw with suspicion. "Julian Thorne?" It was the only name that fit,
the only power in Ashbourne vast enough to make Elara dismiss Hayes shares like
worthless scraps.
Bianca and Claire were statues, their stares drilling into
Elara, terrified she'd confirm their nightmare. If Elara married the Thorne
Crown Prince, the 20% Hayes stake meant nothing. Worse, they'd be crushed
beneath her heel forever, forced to grovel before the girl they'd tormented.
The air thickened with the suffocating weight of that future.
Elara met their collective gaze, a ghost of amusement
flickering in her cool almond eyes. She let the silence stretch, taut as a
wire, before her cherry lips parted. "No." The syllable cut cleanly
through the tension. "When the time comes, Uncle Robert," she
continued, her voice smooth as silk over steel, "you'll know. He is…
beyond Julian Thorne." A deliberate pause, heavy with implication.
"Better. More powerful."
And older, she thought, the truth a secret thrill. Julian's
father. But that revelation was a weapon she'd wield later.
Bianca's brittle laugh shattered the quiet. "More
powerful? Don't be absurd, Elara!" Her voice dripped with venomous
disbelief. "There is no one beyond the Thornes in Ashbourne! You're
spinning fairy tales because you've got nothing!"
Elara's gaze cut to Bianca, sharp and dismissive as
shattered glass. A cold, knowing smile touched her lips. "Oh, honey,"
she drawled, her voice dripping with condescension. "Just because you've
never peeked outside your gilded cage doesn't mean the world stops at its bars.
It just proves," she paused, letting the barb sink in, "how
incredibly small your world really is."
Bianca flushed crimson, sputtering incoherently. Claire's
hand clamped down on her daughter's wrist like a vice, her own expression a
mask of strained composure. Let Robert handle this, her sharp eyes commanded
silently.
Robert leaned forward, the picture of paternal concern that
didn't quite reach his eyes. "Elly," he began, his voice softening
into a practiced caress, "when did you encounter such a… significant
connection? Uncle Rob is in the dark. Marriage is a monumental step. Think
carefully." He waved a dismissive hand, brushing away the tension like
cobwebs. "Those heirlooms… Bianca will return them. This unpleasantness
ends now. It's New Year's Eve. Let the family have a proper reunion dinner. A
fresh start."
Predictable, Elara thought, her
internal smile icy. "I won't be joining you," she stated flatly.
"My presence tends to sour Aunt Claire and Bianca's appetites. Hardly
festive." Her focus snapped back to Bianca, the false pleasantness
evaporating, replaced by a glacial intensity that made her cousin flinch.
"Use the time wisely, Bianca. Find. My. Things." Each word was a
shard of ice. "My patience has limits. Fail to return them…" Her
eyes, usually guarded, blazed with a feral, cornered-light ferocity. "…and
you won't like what happens next." It was the look of a cornered wolf,
fangs bared, promising blood. Bianca paled, a tremor running through her. How
could she produce what she didn't have?
Alone in her room, the distant pop-pop-bang of fireworks
felt like a cruel joke. Mocking her. A hesitant knock broke the silence. A
servant entered, balancing an opulent tray that made Elara's stomach flip:
glazed sea bass shining under the light, roasted duck skin glistening with fat,
plump abalone swimming in rich sauce, a delicate cup of bird's nest steaming
gently. Robert's peace offering? Or a poisoned truce?
Elara waved it away the moment the door closed. Just the
smell – rich, fatty, sweet – sent a violent wave of nausea crashing over her.
Lately, even thinking about heavy food made her gag. Stress was a constant,
leaden weight in her gut. Eat, she ordered herself. You need to.
She forced down two tiny, reluctant bites of fish.
Big mistake.
The oily texture coated her tongue. The cloying sweetness
hit the back of her throat. No. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes
watering, and barely stumbled into the ensuite bathroom before she was
violently sick, retching until her stomach was empty and her throat burned.
Shaking, she slumped against the cool tiles, the chill a
small comfort. Two days, she decided, wiping her mouth. If this isn't
better by then, I'm getting that damn scope. Getting sick? A luxury she
couldn't afford. Bianca's mocking voice echoed uselessly in her head: "So
fussy." As if Bianca could ever understand the fierce, lonely fight to
stay healthy when you only had yourself. When staying strong wasn't a choice,
but a debt owed to ghosts.
Midnight painted the sky in garish bursts of colour. Elara
stared at the stark black letters on Silas Thorne's business card. Shame warred
with desperate, clawing need. She'd shut him down cold. Ice queen. Now?
Crawling back felt like swallowing ash. But pride was useless in a trap.
Marrying him wasn't just an escape hatch; it was a nuclear option against her
enemies. The gossip? Let the vipers choke on it. She'd be untouchable.
Her hand trembled as she picked up her phone. Took a shaky
breath that did nothing to calm the frantic beat of her heart. She dialled.
Brrr… Brrr… Brrr…
The ringtone echoed like a death knell in the silent room.
Each tone stretched into an agonising eternity. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Silence.
The call died. Unanswered.
Her heart plummeted into icy blackness. Didn't hear it?
Celebrating with his real family? Or… just ignoring the inconvenient Hayes
girl? The memory of Ethan's words at Grandpa's funeral stabbed her: "Tell
her my offer stands." A fragile spark of hope flared. Thumbs flying,
she stabbed out a text:
[Mr. Thorne. Elara Hayes. Your proposal. We need to talk.
Urgently. Please call.]
She clutched the phone like a lifeline, staring at the dark
screen until her eyes burned and the distant fireworks became a meaningless,
buzzing hum. Exhaustion finally dragged her under into a restless sleep, where
the phone on her nightstand remained stubbornly, accusingly dark.
Half a world away, the concept of 'celebration' was a
grotesque joke. In a war-ravaged stretch of the Middle East, the night screamed
with the crump of mortars and the acrid stench of burning fuel and cordite. Six
hulking Sentinel cross-country vehicles, scarred and dust-caked, formed a
moving fortress around a matte-black Battle Shield SUV, pushing deeper into
hell.
"Thomas Farley, you colossal prick!" Ethan
snarled, wrestling the Battle Shield's wheel over a crater that threatened to
swallow them whole. Dressed in grimy tactical gear, he was a far cry from his
usual suave persona. "New Year's? Seriously? I should be on a yacht,
Mojito in hand, surrounded by things that don't explode! Not babysitting
tin-can warlords in this godforsaken sandpit! What cosmic joke landed me
here?"
"Stow it, Ethan!" Ben hissed from the passenger
seat, his baby face hardened into flint. He jerked his head towards the rear
seat. "BOSS hasn't uttered a complaint." His voice held absolute
reverence.
Silas Thorne sat amidst the jolting chaos like a statue
carved from shadow. Impeccable black shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to the
elbows revealing powerful forearms, tailored trousers, polished leather shoes
un-scuffed by the wasteland outside. He could have been en route to a hostile
takeover, not a battlefield negotiation. His eyes were closed, hands resting
loosely on his abdomen, fingers absently tracing the intricate lines of the
obsidian wolf's head ring on his left hand. An aura of absolute, terrifying
calm radiated from him.
"BOSS," Ben continued, voice low and urgent over
the engine's roar and distant thuds, "confirmed. The Italians made three
separate overtures to Admiral Farley. Thomas is shaky. That's the only reason
he's forcing this renegotiation before the shipment lands."
A beat of heavy silence, filled only by the vehicle's groan
and the war outside. "Understood," Silas murmured, the deep timbre of
his voice barely a vibration.
Another pause, thick with unspoken strategy. Silas's eyes
opened. Even in the dim dashboard glow, they were sharp, predatory. "Cohen?"
"Still cowering in his Sardinian fortress," Ben
reported instantly, his gaze fixed ahead, scanning the treacherous terrain.
"Our eyes are on him. No movement. A rat in its hole."
Silas gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze
returned to the ring, his expression unreadable, but the slight tightening of
his jaw was the only sign of the lethal calculations unfolding behind his
impassive facade. The Battle Shield lurched violently, throwing them against
their restraints as it plunged into another crater. Outside, the world was a
tableau of smoke, rubble, and flickering firelight – a universe away from a
desperate phone call trembling in a quiet room in Ashbourne.
Two days crawled by. No call. No text. Silas Thorne's
silence was a crushing, unequivocal rejection. Elara sat on the edge of her bed
on the second morning of the New Year, the cheerful sounds of continued
celebration drifting through the window like taunts. A harsh, humourless laugh
escaped her. Idiot. What made you think Silas Thorne waits? That his fleeting
interest was anything but a bored diversion? You actually believed him. The
cold splash of reality was brutal. Plan A was ashes. Time for the terrifying
void of Plan B.
Robert, Claire, and Bianca had departed early for obligatory
New Year visits, leaving the mansion eerily quiet. The oppressive atmosphere
lifted fractionally. Elara managed half a piece of dry toast, her stomach
already a tight knot of dread. Enough. She summoned the driver.
The hospital corridor was a tunnel of fluorescent lights and
the sharp, antiseptic smell that promised answers she suddenly feared. The
consultation was brisk. The doctor, noting the pallor, the shadows under her
eyes, the description of unrelenting nausea, scribbled swiftly. "Given the
symptoms and duration, let's start with bloodwork," she stated, her tone
professionally neutral. Elara's premonition solidified with each step – the
cold sterility of the lab, the sharp sting of the needle, the agonising wait
perched on a hard plastic chair, surrounded by the quiet coughs and shuffles of
the unwell.
When her name was called, the printed results felt
unnaturally heavy. Her eyes scanned the dense medical text, skipping
frantically, searching… landing on the critical line:
Serum hCG: 2,850 mIU/mL (Consistent with Gestation 5-6
Weeks)
Early Pregnancy.
The words detonated. The world tilted violently. The sterile
white walls blurred, the muffled sounds of the hospital fading into a
high-pitched whine. How? The question screamed through the shock, a chaotic,
panicked whirlwind. That night… he… he used protection. Didn't he? Memory
offered only fragmented, wine-hazed impressions. Condoms fail? Or…? A colder,
more terrifying thought slithered in.
Her legs buckled. She stumbled back, collapsing onto the
unforgiving metal chair, the crumpled results clutched like a live grenade in
her shaking hand. Early pregnancy. The two words weren't just a medical fact;
they were an earthquake, reducing her carefully constructed plans – the shares,
the Thornes, Robert's looming threats – to meaningless rubble. The only reality
now was the terrifying, alien life silently taking root within her, an
unforeseen future blooming from a night of desperate escape. The cold metal
seat leached warmth from her body as the enormity of the line she'd just
crossed settled over her, heavy and suffocating.