The phone felt heavy in Elara's hand, her knuckles white
from gripping it too tight. Robert Hayes's voice, a familiar comfort all her
life, now sounded like a poorly rehearsed lie buzzing in her ear. She could
almost picture him on the other end, carefully constructing his version of
events, calculating how much of it she would believe.
"Even my mum's photos are missing?" Elara hissed, the words
sharp and foreign on her tongue. Her voice, usually a soft melody, was now
laced with a venom that surprised even her.
She knew that photo album by heart. Every faded corner,
every smudge of a fingerprint, the exact order of the images that told the
story of her happiest years. She took it out every other day, tracing the faces
of her parents, preserving the memory of their smiles.
On the other end of the line, Robert let out a heavy,
theatrical sigh. "Elly, listen. Lily had been chastised by Bianca a few times
before for her mistakes. She held a grudge. And Ms. Finch, being her aunt,
naturally took her side. They were… confused. They wanted to frame Bianca and
use your anger as their weapon."
He continued, his tone dripping with manufactured guilt.
"They hid the box at their house. When you pressed Bianca to return everything,
they panicked. They were afraid you'd call the police if you couldn't find it,
and the investigation would lead back to them. So, this morning before dawn,
they tried to sneak the remaining items into Bianca's room. Bianca woke up and
caught them red-handed."
"After some… cross-examination," he said, choosing his words
carefully, "Lily admitted she'd taken a few photos from the box. She tore them
up, my dear. Just to deepen the conflict between you and Bianca, to make you
hate her even more."
His voice cracked with false remorse. "Elly, Uncle Rob
didn't know they were all photos of your parents. If I had known—"
"Stop." Elara cut him off, her voice trembling with a rage
so potent it stole her breath. The pain in her chest was a physical,
suffocating thing. She didn't want to hear another word of his pathetic
excuses. "Just tell me where they are now."
"At the police station," he replied, sounding almost proud.
"I reported them for theft myself."
Elara ended the call without another word. The silence that
followed was deafening. Feeling utterly unmoored, she stumbled back and sank
into the plush black sofa, pulling the mutilated photo album to her chest like
a shield. She stared blankly out the window, the world outside a blur of
indifferent city lights.
The returned possessions meant nothing. It was the torn
fragments of her mother's smile, her father's embrace—those were the
irreplaceable losses. Ms. Finch and Lily… A cold, calculating thought cut
through her grief. The story was too neat, too convenient. Was Robert truly
that blind, or was he lying to protect someone?
She was so lost in her thoughts she didn't hear the study
door open.
Silas emerged, his meeting evidently over. He paused at the
sight before him. Curled deep into the vast black sofa, Elara seemed smaller
than ever. Dressed in a light blue silk robe, she looked like a shattered
porcelain doll. Her face was pale, her expression that of a lost fawn trapped
in a thicket of despair, struggling to find a path that didn't exist.
His gaze swept over the scene: the pink tin box on the
coffee table, the heartbreaking way she clung to the album.
"Andy brought your things?" he asked, his voice a low rumble
that gently pierced the heavy silence.
Elara's almond-shaped eyes blinked slowly, pulling herself
back from the edge of her dark thoughts. "Hmm," she murmured, watching as he
picked up the dark red passport holder from the bag. He sat beside her, his
presence a solid, calming force.
"You're done with your meeting?" she asked, straightening up
slightly.
"Yes." His eyes fell to the album in her lap. "May I?" he
asked softly.
Elara hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding,
handing him her most precious treasure.
Silas took it with a reverence that made her heart clench.
His long, elegant fingers carefully turned the pages. He wasn't just flipping
through them; he was studying each one, absorbing the history etched in every
faded image.
There was a family of three, frozen in time. A baby in a
cradle, a toddler taking her first steps, a little girl with wide, curious eyes
growing year by year. His sharp, often intimidating features softened
remarkably. In the low light, his gaze was tender, his lips curved into a
faint, unconscious smile.
Elara's cheeks began to burn with a mixture of shyness and
endearment. She saw the photos through his eyes now. There she was, a little
mess—her collar perpetually askew, a hair-clip dangling precariously, socks
bunched around her ankles. In another, she was fresh from the garden, sporting
muddy knees, tousled hair, and a pair of bright yellow wellies, beaming with
uncontainable joy. And in so many, she was clutching a well-loved teddy bear,
its fur matted and one eye missing, a constant companion in her adventures.
In one particularly embarrassing shot, a toddler Elara was
caught mid-giggle, a suspicious glisten of drool at the corner of her mouth.
A deep, warm chuckle escaped Silas's lips. "It's better not
to look at that one!" Elara exclaimed, reaching to cover the photo.
But he was quicker, his hand gently closing over hers,
stopping her. His touch was electric. "You were adorable," he said, his voice a
low, magnetic rumble that vibrated right through her. The words did something
to her, twisting around her heart and flooding her with warmth. Was he talking
about the little girl in the photo… or about her, now?
The thought sent a fresh wave of heat to her face.
"With a mummy this cute," he murmured, his free hand coming
to rest gently on her still-flat stomach, "our babies will be just as
beautiful."
Our babies. The words painted a sudden, vivid future
in her mind. She could almost see them—little ones with his eyes and her smile,
chasing each other, their laughter filling the halls. And then, surrounding
him, tiny voices calling, Daddy! Daddy!
Overwhelmed by the image, he pulled her into his arms,
holding her securely against his chest. He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the
crown of her head. "Elly, I will be a good father. We'll be like your parents
were…" He didn't need to finish the sentence. The promise was clear: happy,
loving, complete.
A gentle tremor went through her. His devotion was a
tangible thing, a safe harbour in the storm of her life. She turned her face
into his shoulder, her voice a muffled whisper against the fabric of his shirt.
"Silas Thorne, I will be a good mother, too."
They spent the next hour lost in the album. Silas would
point to a picture, and Elara would weave a story around it—a silly anecdote
her father told, the reason her mother was laughing so hard in that one, the
day she refused to take off her fairy wings. Slowly, the weight on her heart
lightened. She didn't notice the small smile returning to her lips or the way
Silas watched her, utterly captivated, his own smile mirroring hers.
Once the pink box was safely stored away, Silas handed her
his passport and driver's license. "I've checked. Tomorrow is an auspicious
day. We'll go and register our marriage in the morning."
"So soon?" Elara fumbled for her phone, pulling up the
calendar. "But Silas, it's a public holiday. The Civil Affairs Bureau will be
closed."
He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind
her ear, his smile confident and assuring. "Don't worry about that. They'll be
open for us."
Later that night, well past nine, Silas stepped out of the
shower, a towel slung low around his hips. He found Elara fast asleep, curled
into a small ball on her side of the bed. The business proposals she'd been
reviewing were scattered beside her, forgotten. A soft smile touched his lips
as he carefully pulled the duvet over her, making sure she was warm.
As he did, his phone on the bedside table lit up and
vibrated with an insistent buzz. He snatched it up quickly, not wanting to wake
her. The screen glowed with the caller ID: Ingrid Winslow.
He dimmed the lights and slipped out of the room, closing
the door with a soft click before answering.
"Ingrid."
He barely got her name out before the explosion came. "Silas
Thorne, you impossible boy!" Ingrid Winslow's voice was a sharp whip crack down
the line, brimming with days of pent-up fury. "You vanish for days, finish your
business, and don't even bother returning to the old mansion? What on earth is
going on over there? If it weren't for Annabelle ranting about you for the past
two days, I wouldn't even know you were back!"
Silas leaned against the wall in the hallway, a towel still
in his hand from drying his hair. A faintly amused smile played on his lips.
"And what, exactly, has my dear cousin been ranting about?"
On the other end, Ingrid kicked her husband under the
covers, signalling for a glass of water. She was too wired for milk. "She
called you an ungrateful wretch! Said the old bachelor has found a wife and
forgotten his own family. That you're 'old and confused,' bewitched by some
young hussy."
Ingrid's voice dropped into a deadly, suspicious calm. "Now.
You tell me. Since when did you have a wife? Even I, your favourite aunt, was
not deemed important enough to inform?"
Silas paused, the towel stilling in his hand for a beat. He
could picture Annabelle's dramatic tears and his aunt's shrewd, narrowed eyes.
He let out a slow breath, his tone deceptively casual. "Well, you know now."
The silence on the other end was absolute. He could
practically hear the gears turning in his powerful aunt's head, trying to
process the bombshell he'd just dropped so flippantly.
When her voice finally returned, it was several octaves
higher, stripped of all its usual composure. "You say that again? You found a
woman?!"