The storm of tears finally subsided, leaving Elara's chest
feeling raw and hollow, as if the sobs had scraped her clean from the inside
out. She dragged the back of her hand across her cheeks, a rough, angry motion
that did little more than smudge the salty trails of her breakdown. The
initial, crushing wave of fragile despair was receding, but in its place, a new
sensation was taking root—a hard, cold resolve that settled in the stubborn set
of her jaw and the newly flinty glint in her stormy eyes.
She wasn't crying over him. Not really.
These tears were for the tiny, miraculous, and utterly
terrifying life that had chosen the most impossibly inconvenient time to
announce its existence. At twenty-one, fresh out of university with a world of
expectations on her shoulders, her own future was a terrifying, blank canvas.
How on earth was she supposed to be responsible for another human being when
she could barely navigate her own path? The weight of it was a physical
pressure, a leaden cloak of dread threatening to suffocate her, to press her into
the floorboards.
The alternative—the cold, clinical ending of it—sent a
visceral shudder of pure revulsion straight through her soul. She was the
product of a love so deep and true it had felt like living inside a fairy tale.
Her parents had doted on her, their faces forever radiant with a joy that had
subconsciously branded one unwavering truth onto her heart: a child is the
greatest treasure. Just the thought of rejecting that gift made her chest
constrict so tightly each breath became a painful, ragged effort.
The innocent little cluster of cells inside her, a secret
only she knew, deserved so much more than her all-consuming fear.
Caught between sheer terror and a primal, ferociously
protective instinct she never knew she possessed, Elara had felt herself
spiralling into a dark, lonely abyss. And in that blind panic, she had reached
out, scrambling for the nearest vine—Silas Thorne.
What a foolish, naive, utterly humiliating mistake that
had been.
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped her chapped lips. He had a
girlfriend. A beautiful, dark-haired daughter who was the spitting image of
him. And yet he'd had the audacity to look her in the eye and propose marriage.
He'd been playing with her, seeing her as nothing more than a young, gullible
distraction—a bit of fun to pass the time. The apple didn't fall far from the
tree; both he and his son clearly thought she was an easy target, a pawn in
their twisted games.
The sharp, invasive ringtone of her phone sliced through the
heavy, suffocating silence of the apartment. Elara jumped, her heart hammering
against her ribs. She took a shaky, steadying breath, wiping her eyes once more
with a trembling hand before pulling the device from her bag.
The name flashing on the screen—SILAS THORNE—made her blood
run cold, then instantly boil with a fresh, incandescent anger. Her thumb
jabbed the answer button with enough force to crack the glass.
"Elara." His voice came through, low and slightly
distorted by a weak connection, but it still managed to drip with that
familiar, maddening calm. "Sorry. There was no signal. I just saw your
missed call."
"Don't you dare apologise," she spat, her voice
dripping with a sarcasm so cold it could freeze the sun. "I should be the
one who's sorry for so carelessly interrupting your romantic holiday abroad
with your girlfriend."
A dead, heavy silence echoed from the other end, so profound
she could almost hear the dust settling in the war zone he was supposedly in.
In the dark, armoured interior of the Battle Shield SUV,
Silas Thorne froze. The cigarette pinched between his fingers paused mere
inches from his lips. His brow furrowed deeply, carving lines of confusion and
sudden tension into his usually impassive face.
"What girlfriend?" he asked, his voice dangerously
low. "What holiday?" His dark eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the
war-torn, moonlit ruins scrolling past his bulletproof window. A holiday here?
In this hellscape? He'd have to bring her here someday just so she could see
the sheer absurdity of that statement for herself.
"Stop playing dumb, Silas! It's pathetic and it's
insulting!" Elara's voice crackled through the speaker, her patience
evaporating into pure fury. "I was pregnant and scared out of my mind, so
I came to you. And your daughter was kind enough to answer and inform me that
Daddy was away on a trip overseas with his girlfriend."
Click.
The sleek silver lighter in Silas's free hand flickered and
died. Ash tumbled from his neglected cigarette onto the pristine black wool of
his trousers, completely unnoticed.
His mind, usually an impenetrable fortress of calculated
control and icy composure, went completely, utterly blank. The world narrowed
to the voice in his ear and the two earth-shattering words she'd just uttered.
Pregnant. Daughter. For a full three seconds, the great Silas Thorne was
rendered utterly speechless. When his brain finally rebooted, his voice was a
razor-sharp command that brooked no argument, echoing through the confined
space of the SUV. "Ben. Stop the car. Now."
The entire convoy screeched to a chaotic halt, tires
protesting on the broken road. Silas was already pushing the heavy door open
before the vehicle had fully settled, striding out into the oppressive, dusty
night air. He turned his back to the caravan of armed men and their watchful
eyes, his tall, powerful frame casting a long, ominous shadow under the hazy,
blood-orange moon.
"Elly," he said, her name a strained exhale, a
forced calm over a churning sea of emotions he couldn't begin to process.
"Talk to me. I'm listening."
A frustrated, hiccupping sigh hissed through the speaker.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're finally listening."
His broad chest rose and fell in a deep, measured breath,
the cool night air doing little to quell the sudden fire in his veins. The knot
in his throat worked. "Did you just say... you're pregnant?" The
words felt foreign, unbelievable on his tongue. "And it's... mine?"
His hand, still holding the forgotten cigarette, trembled with an almost
imperceptible shake.
"Who else's did you think it would be, Silas?" she
shot back, her voice cracking with a pain that lanced through him. He could
practically see her, alone in her apartment, her gaze falling on some
tear-stained lab report. "If you don't believe me, I can send you a
picture of the results right now. The doctor confirmed it's five weeks. And
besides you, there's been no one else for me—"
"I'm not doubting you," he cut in, his tone
softening into something rough, something awed, the ice in his voice thawing
instantly in the face of her pain. "Elly, I would never... I just... I
didn't expect this. It's a shock." A potent, world-altering,
foundation-shattering shock. A child. His child. The clinical, silent diagnosis
he'd carried for years—a secret shame he'd buried deep—shattered into a million
pieces in an instant. He wasn't broken. The thought was immediately followed by
a colder, darker one that made his eyes glint with a dangerous, protective
frost. This changed everything.
Elara fell silent on the other end, clearly disarmed by the
stark shift in his tone.
"Elly," he said again, the nickname a gentle,
deliberate caress meant to soothe the wild animal he knew she must feel like.
"Listen to me. Don't panic. I am... God, I am genuinely happy that you
told me." He could hear the ragged edge of her breathing, could picture
her tear-streaked face, the vulnerable slope of her shoulders, and a fierce,
overwhelming protectiveness surged within him, a primal urge to shield her from
everything, including her own fear. "It's true I'm abroad, but it's not a
holiday. And I don't have a girlfriend. That little girl you met is my cousin,
Annabelle. My aunt Ingrid's daughter. A notoriously mischievous little witch
with a terrifying talent for chaos."
A cousin? Elara's mind raced, the pieces—the similar
dark hair, the familiar curve of the smile, the age that made infinitely more
sense for a niece—clicking into a new, horrifyingly embarrassing configuration.
But the humiliation of her grand, tragic mistake only fuelled the fire of her
anger, giving it a new direction.
"Silas," she said, her voice now frighteningly
quiet and final, all the fight seeming to drain out of her, which was somehow
worse than her yelling. "It doesn't matter if she's your cousin, your
daughter, or the crown princess of England. It changes nothing between us. I
was a fool to come to you. This was my mistake to make."
A muscle ticked violently in his jaw. He could hear the
walls slamming down in her voice, the retreat, and it sent a spike of pure
panic through him. He crushed the dead cigarette under the heel of his boot,
grinding it into the dust.
"She is my cousin," he insisted, his voice
dropping into a low, coaxing rumble he usually reserved for negotiating
multi-million dollar deals, willing her to believe him. "And when I get
back to Ashbourne, the first thing I will do is arrange for you to meet her
properly so she can grovel at your feet for that spectacular lie. She's been a
master of trouble since she could talk."
Elara pressed her lips together tightly on her end of the
line, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, refusing to let him
coax her back from the ledge. Yet, despite her best efforts, the tight,
suffocating knot of anguish in her chest loosened its grip, just a fraction.
From behind him, his second-in-command, Ethan, approached
cautiously, his posture tense. "Boss, we really can't—"
Silas threw up a hand without even looking back, stopping
him dead in his tracks. His entire world had narrowed to the voice in his ear.
"Elly, I can't talk long. It's not safe here," he
said, his voice dropping into a more urgent, intimate register, meant for her
ears only. "But I need you to listen to me. Really listen. Don't be
afraid. You are not alone in this. Do you understand me? You have me. You will
always have me. Leave everything to me. I will be on the first flight back to
Ashbourne. I promise you."
Without waiting for a reply that might shatter his resolve
or break the tenuous connection between them, he ended the call. The sudden
silence that followed was louder and more profound than any explosion or round
of gunfire he'd grown accustomed to.
He stood for a heartbeat longer in the oppressive dark, the
weight of her revelation settling on his shoulders like a physical mantle. Then
he turned, his face transforming back into an unreadable mask of cold, lethal
authority. "Ethan."
"Boss, we need to move. Now," Ethan urged, his
voice tight. "Anti-government patrols have been spotted in this sector.
It's not secure."
"Arrange the fastest private jet. Nothing is priority
over this," Silas commanded, his voice leaving no room for debate as he
strode back to the idling vehicle. "I'm returning to Ashbourne
immediately. You and Ben stay. Finish the deal. Thomas Farley is dealt with,
but the snivelling rat who hired him will be looking for revenge. I expect you
to be waiting for him when he comes crawling out of his hole."
"Understood, Boss," Ben and Ethan replied in grim
unison, their young faces hardening with lethal intent, the business of war
instantly overriding their curiosity.
Back in the safe, quiet stillness of her Ashbourne
apartment, Elara stared at the darkened screen of her phone, the ghost of his
voice—so firm, so certain, so fiercely protective—lingering in the air, warring
with the remnants of her anger and the cold grip of her fear.
After a long, suspended moment, the last of her fighting
energy drained out of her. She sank back onto the sofa, her body going boneless
with a fatigue that was more emotional than physical. Her gaze drifted upward,
lost in the intricate, sparkling crystals of the ceiling light, seeing nothing.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid of what she might
feel, her hand drifted down to rest on her stomach, still perfectly,
deceptively flat.
You have me.
The words replayed in her mind on a loop, a solemn vow
whispered across continents. For the first time since she'd seen those two
life-altering lines on the plastic stick, a single, fragile sliver of light—of
hope—pierced the overwhelming darkness.
He wanted it. He sounded like he wanted the baby.
...Didn't he?