A smirk touched Silas's lips. He tossed the towel aside and
leaned back against the dresser, crossing his ankles. His voice was a low,
confident rumble, laced with a possessiveness that brooked no argument.
"You're half right, Ingrid. I didn't find a
woman," he corrected, the words deliberate. "I found my wife."
The word wife hung in the air, heavy with a finality and
reverence that made the line go silent for a beat. Ingrid Winslow, a woman
rarely caught off guard, was stunned. She understood the monumental difference.
This wasn't some fling or a convenient social match. Wife meant he had chosen.
He had claimed.
Her tone shifted from curious to gravely serious. "I
haven't heard a whisper of this. When did this happen?"
"Recently." His answer was infuriatingly casual,
as if discussing the weather and not the seismic shift in his entire future.
Ingrid's mind raced. "Recently met, or recently decided
you're marrying someone you just met?" The question was a blade, sharp and
precise. If he'd been hiding a serious relationship, her network would have
known. This had the rash, impulsive scent of her nephew at his most stubborn.
She remembered her threat to arrange a blind date for him,
his cool dismissal that he would find his own wife. She'd thought it a
deflection. Now, it seemed he'd already been laying claim to his target.
Her protective instincts flared. After his parents' passing,
Ingrid had poured everything into her sister's only son. Silas Thorne was a
force of nature—opinionated, ruthless, and more stubborn than any Winslow she'd
ever known. Their relationship had been a years-long battle of wills, a
constant clashing of titans. He'd broken into Italian gang strongholds, seized
land from under rivals' noses, and purged the family ranks without a shred of
mercy.
He'd only mellowed slightly with age, the tempest calming to
a controlled, deep current. But the core of him—the man who did exactly what he
wanted, when he wanted—remained. And for him to decide something as monumental
as marriage without a single consultation? It was so typically Silas it made
her want to scream.
Her thoughts were yanked back by his voice. "I met her
recently. I'll bring her to meet you."
Recently met? And you're already getting married? Her brow
furrowed deeply. "Arthur and I are bringing Annabelle and Julian back to
Oakhaven the day after tomorrow. We're leaving soon. When do you propose we
perform this inspection?"
Silas didn't miss a beat. "Tomorrow night. I'll bring
her to the old mansion."
He ended the call before she could retort. Ingrid stared at
the phone in her hand, a storm brewing in her eyes.
She looked up to see her husband, Arthur, leaning against
the doorframe, a glass of water in one hand. At nearly sixty, he was still
dashing, with a gentle handsomeness that had only deepened with age. He watched
her with amused, wary eyes.
"Well?" he asked, his voice a calm contrast to her
simmering energy. "Are we storming the castle, or is there a
ceasefire?"
She planted her hands on her hips. "Don't just stand
there looking innocent. Bring me that water."
He feigned a wince, a well-practiced dance between them.
"And walk into the line of fire? My love, I value my peace."
All these years had taught him one thing: when Silas upset
his wife, the smartest move was to stay very, very still.
Ingrid's eyes narrowed, a faint, dangerous smile playing on
her lips. She crooked a finger. "Get over here. You need to hear what that
nephew of mine has done now."
Arthur sighed melodramatically and took a careful step
forward. "What's he done this time? I'll have a word with him. He's too
old to be causing you this much stress."
Another step. She snatched his sleeve and pulled him close,
her hands coming up to pinch his cheeks like he was a mischievous schoolboy and
not a titan of industry. "Silas," she said, her voice tight with
exasperated awe, "has gone and found himself a wife. Without a word to
anyone. Can you believe the audacity?"
Arthur's body went slack with relief. He'd braced for news
of a corporate takeover or a gang war. "Is that all?" he chuckled,
rubbing his face where she'd pinched him. "My dear, you scared me half to
death. I thought it was something serious."
Ingrid released him with a scoff, snatching the water glass
from his hand and taking a long drink. "It is serious. He's getting
married."
Arthur wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his
chin on her shoulder. "And we will be perfectly charming and welcoming,
just as we always are. He's chosen her. That's enough for us." He pressed
a kiss to her neck. "Now, can we go back to bed? It's far too early for
these theatrics."
She elbowed him gently but leaned back into his embrace.
"Be ready. Silas is bringing her tomorrow night. You will be on your best behaviour,
Arthur Winslow. No hiding in your study."
He nuzzled her hair. "I am always a perfect gentleman.
You have my word, my dear wife."
The next morning, Elara woke slowly, cocooned in a warmth so
deep she never wanted to leave. Pale winter light filtered through the
curtains. A glance at the clock told her it was almost nine.
Lately, the pregnancy had draped a heavy blanket of
exhaustion over her, and the cold, wet winter only made the embrace of the
duvet more enticing. She'd slept more soundly than she had in years, lulled by
a sense of security she hadn't known was possible.
She stretched, her mind drifting. From the first night,
lying stiff and terrified beside a stranger, to now... waking up curled into
the heat of his body, her head on his chest, her senses filled with his clean,
addictive scent of sandalwood and crisp linen. Habit becomes nature, she
thought. And she was adapting frighteningly fast.
The door to the walk-in closet opened, pulling her from her
thoughts.
Silas emerged, and the breath caught in her throat.
He was dressed in a light grey cashmere turtleneck and
perfectly tailored black suit trousers. The simple clothes did nothing to hide
his powerful build—the broad shoulders, the narrow waist, the long, muscular
legs. He looked like a fallen angel who'd decided to conquer the corporate
world instead of heaven. He moved with a lethal, elegant grace, even as he
casually draped a girl's dress over his arm.
"Good, you're awake," he said, his voice a low hum
that vibrated through her. "Get up and get changed. We have an appointment
at the Civil Affairs Bureau at eleven."
The reality of the day crashed into her. The marriage
license.
Her eyes flew wide open. With a gasp, she scrambled out of
the vast bed, her messy curls flying.
A deep, amused chuckle stopped her before she could dash to
the bathroom. His hand wrapped gently around her wrist, pulling her back.
"Elly," he said, his tone softening her panic. "Don't rush. We
have time."
He handed her the clothes from his arm. "I took the
liberty. Go get ready."
"O-okay," she stammered, taking the soft bundle.
It was only inside the sanctuary of the bathroom, after
she'd splashed water on her face, that she really looked at what he'd chosen. A
beautiful, simple cream-coloured dress. And nestled within it... a set of
lingerie.
Red. A breathtaking, passionate crimson lace.
A hot blush exploded across her cheeks, traveling down her
neck. He'd picked this out for her. His taste was impeccable, his intention
unmistakable. Her mind, traitorously, wondered what he was wearing underneath
his own impeccable outfit. She shook her head violently, dispelling the image
before it could fully form.
At 10:50, the sleek black car glided through a private gate
into the parking lot of the Civil Affairs Bureau. No queues, no crowds. Just
silent, efficient privilege.
Elara's hand went to the door handle, her heart hammering
against her ribs. This was it.
"Wait."
Silas's voice stopped her. She turned to see him pulling a
small, exquisite velvet box from his inner suit pocket. It was a deep, royal
blue.
Her breath hitched. Her whole world narrowed to that box.
He looked at her, his dark eyes intense, capturing hers
completely. A slow, devastating smile touched his lips.
"You forgot something, Elly," he murmured, his
voice like rough silk.
He clicked the box open. Nestled inside was a diamond ring,
but unlike any she'd ever seen. It was stunning, elegant, and utterly
formidable—just like the man holding it.
"I haven't proposed to you yet."