The Gulfstream G650 pierced through the inky Middle Eastern sky, a speck
of man-made light against a blanket of stars. Half a world away, shrouded in
the deep Italian night, a gloomy manor stood silent, its windows dark but for a
single, dimly lit room.
Inside, under the weak glow of a wall lamp, a man reclined on a chaise
longue. Dressed in immaculate white trousers and a lab-style coat, his face was
pale, almost luminous in the low light. Steven Cohen smiled, a slow, languid
thing, as he swirled a glass of blood-red wine. The liquid sloshed against the
crystal, capturing a dangerous beauty that mirrored the glint in his narrow,
phoenix eyes.
"To leave in the middle of such a crucial deal... how unlike
him," Steven mused, his voice a soft, melodic murmur that hung in the
still air.
From the shadows in the corner, a deeper voice answered. "The intel
is confirmed. He left his two most trusted men to finalise the terms."
Steven's swirling motion stilled. The smile remained, but it grew
sharper, more calculated. "To abandon a negotiation of that magnitude,
especially when the situation was so... volatile. What could possibly be more
important than billions of dollars and market dominance?" The question was
rhetorical, whispered more to himself than to his hidden guest.
His head tilted, curiosity burning in his gaze. "It makes one
wonder, doesn't it? It truly does."
In one fluid motion, he threw his head back and drained the glass. The
wine stained his pale lips a grotesque, vibrant red. He ran his tongue slowly
over them, savouring the taste, the gesture unnervingly serpentine. His fingers
loosened, and the empty glass fell silently onto the thick Persian rug.
"Patience," he breathed, the word a command. "This was
merely a test. A little probe to see how the great Silas Thorne reacts under
pressure. The Middle East is not his personal playground. His weapons are
exquisite, but others have their... charms." A cold, rakish smile spread
across his features. "If one wishes to steal food from a tiger's mouth,
one must have the stomach to wait for the perfect moment to strike."
"Understood, Mr. Cohen," the shadowy figure intoned.
A moment later, the faint scent of a stranger vanished from the room,
leaving only the aroma of expensive wine and old secrets. Steven's smile
widened. After so many years, he truly did miss his old 'friend'.
He was certain Silas Thorne would be absolutely delighted to see him,
too.
Back in Ashbourne, the heating in Elara's rented apartment hummed
softly. She'd been asleep for hours, buried under blankets, when the shrill
ringtone of her phone shattered the silence.
Blindly, she fumbled for it on the nightstand. The screen glowed with an
unknown local number. She swiped to answer, her voice thick with sleep.
"Hello? Who—"
"Elly? It's... it's Vivian." The voice on the other end was
cloyingly sweet, drenched in a false concern that made Elara's stomach twist
instantly. "We really need to talk. Girl to girl. Can you please meet
me?"
Every muscle in Elara's body coiled tight, her sleepiness evaporating
into cold, sharp anger. "You lost the right to call me 'Elly' when you
lost your clothes in my boyfriend's bed. Don't ever call this number
again." Her thumb hovered over the end call button, her grip so tight the
phone case groaned.
"Wait! Please, just wait!" Vivian's plea was a sharp,
desperate shriek, stripped of all its fake sweetness. "It's about Julian!
I know something you don't—something big. You will regret it for the rest of
your life if you hang up!"
A cold, mirthless laugh escaped Elara's lips. "The only thing I
regret is ever thinking you were my friend. Whatever twisted game you're
playing, I'm not interested."
"You did this, Elara! You pushed him straight into my arms!"
Vivian's facade shattered completely, her words exploding in a raw, venomous
torrent. "Your 'Miss Independent' routine crushed him! He wanted to build
you a castle, to be your damn knight, and you threw it all back in his face!
You have no idea what you had. No idea! I watched him try to love you, and it
killed me because I would have done anything—anything—for him to look at me the
way he looked at you!"
Her voice broke, morphing into a vicious, intimate hiss. "You left
him starving, and I was just there to pick up the pieces. Willingly. He bought
me the apartment on Pansy Garden. He told me you were beautiful but so, so
cold. A perfect ice sculpture. But me?" A dark, triumphant note entered
her whisper. "He said I was a fire. He said he finally felt wanted.
Desired. Like a real man. That's why he kept sneaking into my bed. Because I
satisfied him in ways you were never capable of."
Elara listened, a knot of pure, cold disgust solidifying in her core.
They were a perfect, pathetic pair. A man-child who needed his ego stroked and
a opportunist who sold her soul for a taste of luxury. A match made in hell.
"I heard you're pregnant," Elara said, her voice utterly flat,
devoid of any emotion whatsoever. It was the silence after the explosion.
"Congratulations on finally getting your prize. Make sure my wedding
invitation is engraved. I wouldn't miss the circus for the world."
She didn't wait for a gasp or a sob. The call died with a definitive
click, the silence in her apartment suddenly roaring in her ears.
In a shabby hotel room across town, Vivian stared at her phone, her face
contorted in fury and panic. She'd been hiding for weeks, dodging her parents'
demands and Julian's attempts to 'handle' the pregnancy. She'd hoped to trade
her so-called secret for Elara's help, to appeal to some remnant of their dead
friendship. But Elara had shut her down completely.
Fine. If that's how it was, she wouldn't hold back anymore.
The nausea hit Elara like a wave. She stumbled to the bathroom, vomiting
until her throat burned. This pregnancy reaction was relentless, a constant,
ugly reminder of the life growing inside her. The thought of enduring this for
months longer was exhausting.
She couldn't go back to Hayes Manor yet. She couldn't face her uncle's
matchmaking attempts, and she definitely couldn't risk someone noticing her
sickness. She had to wait. She had to see Silas first.
The old apartment building was a tomb in the dead of night, buried under
a silence so heavy you could hear your own heartbeat. Then, a stray dog's
frantic, sharp barks ripped through the calm, a desperate sound that didn't
fade but grew more insistent, more urgent.
Elara jerked awake from a thin, troubled sleep. What—? Before she could
process the noise outside, a more immediate vibration shocked her—the frantic
buzzing of her phone against the pillow. Her heart catapulted into her throat.
She fumbled for it, the screen's blinding light searing her sleep-blurred eyes.
And then she saw it.
The name. Silas.
Her thumb swiped to answer before her brain could catch up.
"Hello?" she breathed, her voice a ragged whisper scraped raw from
sleep and anxiety.
"Did I wake you, sweetheart?" His voice was a low, gravelly
rumble that traveled straight down her spine, sparking every nerve ending. It
was layered with a deep, bone-deep exhaustion she'd never heard in him before,
making it somehow more intimate, more dangerous. "Be a good girl for me.
Open the door."
Open the door?
Her eyes flew wide open in the dark. She scrambled to sit up, the duvet
tangling around her hips.
"No rush," he murmured, and she could almost hear the tired,
predatory smile in his voice. A soft, dark chuckle followed. "I can wait.
But not for long."
The call ended. For a second, she just sat there, the phantom of his
voice echoing in the silence, her pulse a wild, frantic drum against her ribs.
Moving on autopilot, she slid out of bed. The floor was cold under her bare
feet as she padded to the living room and flipped on a single, soft lamp. She
blinked in the sudden glow, her mind a chaotic whirlwind, before forcing
herself to the front door.
Her hand trembled as it wrapped around the cold brass of the deadbolt.
She drew one last, shaky breath, turned the lock, and pulled the door open.
And the world stopped.
Silas Thorne dominated her doorway, a spectre woven from shadow and the
cold night air. He was a paradox—every bit the devastatingly powerful man she
remembered, yet fundamentally altered. A brutal weariness was carved into the
faint lines at the corners of his eyes, which glowed with a fatigue-induced
intensity. Dressed only in a simple black shirt, untucked and hanging open at
the collar to reveal the strong, taut column of his throat, and dark trousers,
he looked less like a billionaire and more like a warrior returned from a long,
hard battle. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing corded, powerful forearms.
One hand was shoved casually in his pocket, the other held his black overcoat
slung over his shoulder.
He stood with his innate, effortless power, but his dark, penetrating
gaze, locked solely on her, held a universe of unspoken storms—primal relief,
profound exhaustion, and a scorching, possessive heat that stole the air from
her lungs.
"Silas... what are you doing here?" she managed to choke out,
her throat desert-dry. "It's the middle of the night."
A ghost of a smile, dangerous and captivating, touched his impossibly
perfect lips. "It's cold out here, little one. Aren't you going to let me
in?"
He didn't wait for an answer. In one fluid, decisive motion, he stepped
across the threshold. His arm snaked around her shoulders, pulling her gently
but firmly against the solid, warm wall of his body as he moved them both
inside. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click. The snick of the
deadbolt engaging was the loudest sound in the world.
They were sealed in. Alone. The outside world ceased to be.
He finally looked down at her, his intense gaze burning away every
thought, every worry, until there was nothing left but him. The air crackled
with a thousand unsaid things.