Bianca's whisper was a venomous hiss, cutting through the hushed,
elegant silence of the corridor. "What is that bitch thinking? She's making a
complete spectacle of herself—and dragging us through the mud with her!"
Robert Hayes didn't even turn his head. The glance he shot his daughter
was so icy it could have frozen lava. Bianca immediately stiffened, her fingers
tightening around her clutch until the leather strained. She might be
impulsive, but she knew the unbreakable rule: never let the mask slip in
public. Unlike some people, who seemed to thrive on humiliation.
The restaurant manager, a picture of polished serenity, offered a
practiced, unreadable smile. He led them through a maze of softly lit hallways
adorned with subtle, expensive art, finally stopping before an imposing door of
intricately carved dark wood. With two precise knocks, he opened it and
gestured for them to enter.
The private dining room was a lesson in understated power. The air
smelled of sandalwood and money. A vast silk screen, painted with a serene
mountain landscape, partially obscured a cozy seating area where two figures
were already waiting.
And there she was. Elara.
But it was an Elara they barely recognised. Gone was the girl in simple
sweaters. She was draped in a stunning violet dress that clung to her every
curve, the fabric shimmering softly under the low light. She held a delicate
porcelain teacup, her movements fluid and graceful, radiating a confidence that
was entirely new. She looked… regal.
Yet, the man beside her utterly commanded the space.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a dark bespoke
suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tie that probably cost more than Robert's
watch. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, but they did nothing
to soften the sharp, calculating intelligence in his eyes. He exuded an aura of
absolute, effortless authority—the kind that makes other powerful men feel like
boys playing dress-up.
When his gaze lifted and swept over the Hayes family, it wasn't with
curiosity, but with a calm, assessing coolness that felt more dangerous than
any overt glare. Robert felt a cold dread coil in his gut.
Who the hell is this?
"Mr. Thorne," the manager said, his voice layered with deep respect.
"Your other guests have arrived."
The man—Thorne—gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Thank you.
Since the party is now complete, you may serve dinner. We will discuss matters
over the meal."
His voice was a low, controlled baritone, smooth as aged whiskey and
leaving absolutely no room for discussion. The unspoken thought that echoed
with every significance in his mind was that she was eating for three now, and
her well-being was his absolute priority.
The silence that fell after the staff withdrew was so thick it was
suffocating.
Robert finally found his voice, the words tight with strained
politeness. "Elara. Perhaps you could introduce us to your… friend."
Elara didn't flinch. She merely glanced at the man beside her, a silent
communication passing between them that was far more intimate than words.
A faint, almost arrogant smile touched the man's lips. He gave Elara's
hand a subtle, possessive squeeze where it rested on his knee, then rose to his
full height with a panther-like grace. He crossed the room and stopped before
Robert, extending his hand.
"Silas Thorne. Head of the Thorne family empire."
Robert stared at the offered hand, his brain short-circuiting, trying to
place the name. But it was Bianca who shattered the tension with a shocked,
undignified gasp. Claire Hayes flinched as if struck, her hand darting out to
grip Robert's arm under the table in a silent plea for damage control.
"Thorne?" she blurted, her voice shrill. "You—you're Master Julian's
father?!"
Her mind screamed. Oh my god. She's not just dating her ex's friend…
she's shacked up with his dad! How disgustingly shameless can you be, Elara?
The unspeakable implication hung in the air, a toxic cloud of scandal.
Robert and Claire's faces flushed with identical shades of profound
humiliation.
Silas retracted his hand, his expression turning to arctic frost. He
adjusted his glasses, the movement slow and deliberate. "Mr. Hayes," he said,
his tone deceptively soft, each word laced with razor blades. "It appears you're
your daughter was never taught the basic tenets of civility."
Robert stiffened, his jaw clenching. "My deepest apologies, Mr. Thorne.
Her lack of decorum is a reflection of my failure."
"Indeed, it is," Silas replied, his chilling gaze slicing toward Bianca,
who shrunk under its weight. "A failure I suggest you rectify quickly. If you
cannot teach her when to hold her tongue, rest assured, the world will—and it
will be a far less merciful lesson."
He let the threat hang in the air for a beat, a promise veiled in
politeness. "You are Elara's family. Tonight is, in spirit, a family dinner.
Let's dispense with the unpleasantness. We will eat. Then, we will talk."
With that, he turned his back on them, a dismissal so complete it was
breathtaking. He returned to Elara, his entire demeanour shifting. His voice
dropped to a warm, private murmur as he offered her his hand. "Ready, my dear?"
Together, they moved to the grand dining table, their connection obvious
and unbreakable.
Bianca watched, her nails digging half-moons into her palms, a jealousy
so acidic it burned her throat. This wasn't fair. This power, this attention,
this… man…
The meal was a silent, torturous affair. Exquisite course after course
was presented, but the Hayes trio might as well have been eating ash. They
could only watch, utterly stupefied, as Silas Thorne—a legendary titan known
for his ruthlessness—tenderly served Elara the best morsels, his attention
solely on her, speaking in low tones that created an intimate bubble around
them.
It was surreal. This was not the cutthroat businessman from the
financial journals. This was a man utterly captivated.
Elara accepted his devotion with a quiet grace, though she felt the heat
of her family's stares. She didn't care. Let them watch. Let them seethe.
As the final dishes were cleared, Silas dabbed his mouth with a linen
napkin and placed it neatly on the table. The shift in the room was immediate.
The attentive suitor was gone, replaced by the CEO.
He fixed his unwavering gaze on Robert. "Now, Mr. Hayes. Let us discuss
the purpose of this meeting."
Robert forced a tense smile. "Of course, Mr. Thorne. We're listening." He
had to salvage something from this disaster-dignity, a bargaining chip,
anything.
Silas's eyes flickered to Elara, and his expression softened for a
fraction of a second, a silent promise. Then he looked back, his face an
unreadable mask of resolve.
"I intend to marry Elara," he stated. It wasn't a question, a proposal,
or a request. It was a simple, irrevocable declaration of fact.
"As her remaining family, you are being informed as a courtesy. We will
obtain our marriage license imminently. This will be followed by a formal
engagement announcement and, in due time, a wedding that will befit her worth
and standing."
Robert's face paled. He drew a slow, steadying breath, squaring his
shoulders for a fight he knew he couldn't win, but one his pride demanded he
wage.
"Mr. Thorne. With the utmost respect," he began, his voice low and firm.
"You are aware, of course, that Elara was previously involved with your son,
Julian."
One of Silas's eyebrows arched, a silent testament to his arrogance. "A
concluded chapter in a very long book. Elara is free to choose her future.
Their past is irrelevant to my future with her."
His tone left no room for debate. It was the final word.
Robert leaned forward, his hands clenched on the table, the fine linen
tablecloth wrinkling under his white knuckles. "I made a vow to her late
parents to protect her. To guide her. I cannot stand idly by while she makes a
choice that will make her the laughingstock of this city! You are her
ex-boyfriend's father. The gossip, the scorn—it will eviscerate her. And furthermore,"
he added, injecting a note of paternal concern, "the… significant difference in
your ages… I must think of her long-term happiness. Therefore, I cannot, in
good conscience, give my approval."
The challenge hung in the air, a direct defiance of Silas Thorne's will.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Silas's face, but it never reached
his eyes. The clink of Elara's teacup settling into its saucer was the only
sound in the room. He didn't bother to look at Robert. Instead, he simply
raised his hand and snapped his fingers—a sharp, commanding sound that cracked
through the room like a gunshot.
The door opened instantly.