The silence in the lavish
playroom was thick enough to feel. Annabelle's words—a perfectly aimed,
little-kid jab—hung in the air between them, designed to sting.
Silas Thorne closed his eyes for
a count of two, taking a long, slow breath designed for patience. When he
opened them, he looked down at the small, defiant figure of his ten-year-old
cousin. Dressed in a bright pink boxing robe, her hands were swallowed by
enormous red boxing gloves.
"Annie," he said, his
voice a low, steady rumble. "We've talked about this. Words can leave
bruises, too. You don't use them to hit people."
She let out a mighty huff,
attempting to cross her arms before the bulky gloves made it impossible. She
settled for planting them firmly on her hips. "It is true! You're just a
big grouch and you know it!"
She tapped one padded glove
against her chin, putting on a theatrical thinking face. "But it kinda
makes sense, I guess. Your new lady friend wasn't playing with a full deck. She
fell for my story like, whoosh." Her eyes, shining with unearned triumph,
swept over him. "So your picker is obviously broken."
A rough, amused sound escaped
Silas's lips. He bent down, bringing himself to her eye level, and gently
tapped the end of her nose with his finger. "Says the connoisseur who puts
ketchup on her mac and cheese and calls it gourmet."
Elara was sharp; she just had
a heart soft enough to believe a child's story, a trust he desperately wished
she would extend to him.
"Duh," Annabelle
retorted, sticking her tongue out. Her victory was spectacularly short-lived.
His next words made her smug
little face crumple. "You're going to apologise to her. A real one. For
the whole elaborate scheme."
"Why?" she whined,
stomping a foot for good measure. "It was just a prank!"
"Because good pranks end
with everyone laughing," he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation
but softening at the edges. "This one didn't. She's going to be family,
Annie. That means we protect her. We're on the same team. My team is your
team."
The air grew taut. It was a
familiar standoff. Annabelle's bottom lip began a dramatic tremble, but Silas
held her gaze, unwavering.
Suddenly, the tension exploded.
She flung herself onto the plush rug, the gloves making a comical thump. A
world-ending, Oscar-worthy sob erupted from her.
"Waaaaah! You're the worst
cousin in the whole history of cousins!" she wailed, the sound expertly
pitched to shatter eardrums and guilt-trip relatives. "I'm telling my mom
you're being a big, bully meanie! You get a new friend and you forget all about
me! You're a... a... big poopy-head!"
Silas winced, the decibel level
drilling into his skull. He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was her
nuclear option, and it was, as always, brutally effective on every adult in the
family.
"Alright, alright, off the
floor, drama queen," he relented, his voice weary. "I'll see if she
can visit this weekend. You will use that time to craft a proper, non-weepy
apology. Deal?"
He turned and walked out,
closing the door firmly behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the
hysterical waterworks from inside cut off as if a valve had been turned.
That tiny, magnificent faker.
He leaned against the door for a
moment, a weary but utterly fond smile touching his lips. She was a hurricane
in a pink robe. A master manipulator who could skate out of any consequence,
leaving a trail of wrapped-around-her-finger adults in her wake.
One tiny diva in the family was
more than enough.
His mind drifted to the quiet,
fragile life growing in Elara's womb, and a fierce, protective resolution
solidified in his heart. He was absolutely going to need to brief Annabelle
extensively on proper baby etiquette before any introductions were made.
Elara slept like the dead, the emotional whirlwind of the
previous night pulling her into a deep, dreamless void. When she finally
surfaced, the clock glowed past nine. Sunlight streamed into her small
apartment, illuminating the evidence of Silas's early departure: a single sheet
of thick, cream-coloured paper with his precise script and a breakfast spread
that belonged in a five-star hotel.
The note was all efficient command, just like the man. Gone
to change. Will return by 10 to collect you for your appointment. Eat.
He'd taken charge, just as he had in the raw, quiet hours of
the morning, his voice a low murmur on the phone as he commandeered the best
obstetric team in the city.
She lifted the lids on the takeaway boxes. Golden croissants
that flaked at a touch, delicate fruit tarts glistening with glaze, a bowl of
perfect berries, and a thermos that released the rich, decadent scent of dark
hot chocolate. It was from VIVO, the impossibly exclusive restaurant at the
Meridian Hotel. There was enough food to feed her for a week.
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped her. Of course he
didn't just order breakfast; he acquired a feast. She ate until she was
full, each bite a silent testament to his overwhelming, confusing way of
caring.
She was rinsing a plate when the doorbell chimed. Pulling it
open, she found Silas leaning against the frame, and her breath caught.
The man from last night—the one with shadows under his eyes
and a rare vulnerability—was gone. In his place stood the Silas Thorne the
world knew. Dressed in a black turtleneck and tailored trousers under a dark
cashmere coat, he was the picture of devastating, powerful elegance. A faint,
genuine smile softened the usual granite set of his jaw, and his grey eyes,
clear and focused, scanned her face.
"Did you eat?" he asked, his voice that familiar
low rumble.
"I did. Thank you. It was too much." She tucked a
strand of hair behind her ear. "You could have just called. I would have
come down."
He stepped inside, his presence instantly making her small
apartment feel even smaller. His gaze did a swift, critical inventory of the
space—the slightly worn rug, the narrow hallway—before settling back on her
with an intensity that made her heart stutter.
"This building is a hazard," he stated, his tone
leaving no room for argument. "The lighting is poor, the staircase is a
death trap. It's not safe for you to be going up and down those steps
alone."
Elara's hand flew to her stomach, a protective gesture she
wasn't even aware of. He wasn't just talking about her. He was talking about
the baby. The thought of a misstep, of falling… a cold wave of fear washed over
her.
"Pack your things," he said, his hand finding the
small of her back, gently guiding her toward the bedroom. His touch was warm,
possessive. "You're not staying here another night. You're coming home
with me. Today."
The command was absolute, but the meaning behind it—safety,
security, his protection—was what made her nod. "Okay." The word was
a whisper, a surrender that felt less like defeat and more like coming home.
It took only minutes to pack her life into a single,
milky-white suitcase. A few clothes, her well-loved books, her laptop. It was a
life that felt small and transient, on the verge of expanding in ways that
thrilled and terrified her.
Downstairs, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Cullinan was idling at
the curb like a panther waiting for its prey. Silas effortlessly stowed her
suitcase and handed her into the plush leather passenger seat.
"You drove yourself?" The question tumbled out,
his confession about his night blindness vivid in her mind.
"Hmm," he murmured, sliding into the driver's
seat. The engine purred to life. "It's daytime. It's fine." He
glanced at her, and a flicker of something warm—pleasure?—crossed his features
that she'd remembered. "Don't worry."
Thirty minutes later, the powerful car glided into the
pristine circular drive of St. Joseph's Hospital. Elara knew it well—a private,
gilded fortress for Ashbourne's elite, famously affiliated with the powerful
Sterling Group.
Silas was at her door before the car had fully settled, his
hand offered to help her out. She was beginning to expect his old-world
chivalry, but she had no idea how seismic the sight was to the man watching
from the grand entrance.
Nathaniel Sterling, young, charismatic, and head of the
hospital, did a double-take so violent he almost dropped the expensive tablet
in his hand. He blinked, certain the stress of the job was giving him
hallucinations. Because Silas Thorne was currently helping a young woman out of
his car with a tenderness Nathaniel had never witnessed in the fifteen years
he'd known him.
Then he got a good look at the girl's face, and recognition
slammed into him.
"Holy shit," he breathed, his jaw going slack. He
recovered quickly, striding forward with a practiced smile that didn't quite
reach his astonished eyes. "Silas Thorne, you... you're insane..." He
finally managed, his voice low. "Have you completely lost your—"
"Nathaniel," Silas cut him off, his voice a low,
warning growl that promised retribution. "Mind your manners."
Elara kept her eyes downcast, her cheeks burning. She'd met
Nathaniel once before, on Julian's arm. The dawning recognition and sheer shock
in his eyes were utterly mortifying.
Nathaniel, seeing her acute discomfort, immediately snapped
into the role of the impeccable host. But his mind was reeling. So the bar
wasn't a fluke. He actually went through with it. And she's... pregnant?
"Right. Of course. My apologies," Nathaniel said,
clearing his throat and offering a calming, professional smile. "Welcome,
Elara. The private suite is ready for you on the top floor. We can take you
straight up?" He gestured to the discreet, smiling medical team waiting
nearby.
Silas looked down at her, his entire demeanour shifting. The
cold authority melted into a softness meant only for her. "Do you want me
to come with you?"
She shook her head, grateful for the out. He wouldn't have
asked if he didn't have business to handle. "No. I'll be okay. I'll go
with them."
"Alright. I'll just be a few minutes." He squeezed
her hand gently, a gesture of such open care and connection that Nathaniel
could only stare, his concept of reality shifting on its axis.
They watched her disappear into the private elevator, the
doors swallowing her up.
The moment they closed, Nathaniel's facade cracked. He
jerked his head toward his office. "My office. Now. And you're explaining
everything."
Once inside the sleek, modern sanctuary, Nathaniel pulled
out a box of imported cigarettes. Silas took one, leaning forward to let
Nathaniel light it. He took a long, deep drag, the smoke wreathing his sharp
features like mist.
"Start talking," Nathaniel demanded, dropping into
his chair. "Man, the person I admire most in this world is you. But this?
This is next-level insanity."
Silas stretched his long legs out, leaning back as he
exhaled a slow, contemplative stream of smoke. "Save the theatrics. I need
you to arrange something for me. Discreetly. A full male fertility work-up. I
want everything tested."
Nathaniel's playful demeanour vanished, replaced by stark
professional curiosity. "You think the diagnosis you got from the
specialists in Italy was wrong? They're the best in the world."
"How else do you explain it, Nathaniel?" Silas's
dark eyes locked onto his, intense and deadly serious. "I got her
pregnant. While wearing a condom."
Nathaniel's cigarette paused halfway to his lips. He was
utterly speechless.
"Unless," Nathaniel finally mused, recovering his
composure with a forced laugh, "the girl has some kind of... miraculously
persuasive biology? I mean, it's never happened before. With anyone else."
Silas shot him a look that could flash-freeze a volcano.
"What ever gave you the illusion that I am a careless man like you? That I
would ever be in a situation where that could be tested?"
The unspoken truth slammed into the space between them,
heavy and profound. Elara was the first. The only one.
Nathaniel simply stared, the sheer, earth-shattering
magnitude of it all finally sinking in. This wasn't just a scandal or a
surprise.
It was a miracle. And it changed everything.