Silas's words landed in Elara's heart not like a stone, but like a
seismic shift. The ripples of his declaration flooded her entire being, leaving
her breathless and reeling.
He was taking her to the civil registry. A signature, a stamp, and it
would be done. Yet here he was, on one knee, doing things properly. Doing this
for her.
A tumult of emotions swirled within her—shock, disbelief, and a fragile,
blooming hope. Under the soft light, her gaze was complex, tracing the lines of
his serious face as his long, slender fingers, veins subtly tracing the back of
his hands, opened the blue velvet box.
A flash of brilliant, dazzling pink caught the light.
Nestled inside was a spectacular pink diamond, a perfect pigeon-blood
diamond, a ten-carat teardrop of breathtaking colour. Its purity was flawless,
its cut so precise it seemed to hold a captured fire within.
"Elara Hayes."
Her name on his lips was a low, gravelly murmur that vibrated through
the very air between them, a current that seized her heart and held it still.
He knelt, a king in a posture of surrender, his piercing gaze locking her in
place.
"I have never been a man who speaks in poetry. I don't traffic in
fantasies or easy promises." He paused, the weight of his confession
hanging in the silence. "But I am a man who recognises a fundamental truth
when he sees it. And the truth I see is you."
He opened the box, the brilliant pink diamond catching the light like a
captured star.
"My world is built on contracts and certainties. This is the only
vow that has ever truly terrified me, because it is the only one that matters.
I want you to be my wife. Not for convenience. Not for any reason other than
the terrifying, absolute certainty that I cannot imagine my future without you
in it."
His dark eyes held hers, unwavering and intense. It was said that men
with peach-blossom eyes could make anyone feel like the only person in the
world. In this moment, Elara believed it. The slight curve at the corners of
his eyes seemed to pull her in, promising a depth of feeling she was only
beginning to fathom.
"I can guarantee you this," he vowed, each word measured and
heavy with conviction. "There will be no betrayal in our marriage. No
chains. You will have the freedom to be whoever you wish. You will want for
nothing."
The simplicity of his promise was its power. There was no elaborate
poetry, only a raw, undeniable truth that made her heart stutter and her breath
catch. She knew, with every fibre of her being, that if Silas Thorne said it,
it was law.
Four eyes locked, the world shrinking to the space between them. She
searched his gaze, and he gave her the silence to do so, his patience an
unspoken testament to his sincerity.
Five seconds. That's all it took.
A slow, beautiful smile curved Elara's lips. She extended her left hand,
her voice steady and clear.
"Mr. Thorne, you may put the ring on me."
Life was for brave choices. This man had offered her respect, security,
and a shocking amount of freedom. What more could she ask for? And beneath it
all thrummed the unspoken truth—the lives of their two children, forever tying
their fates together.
A triumphant light flickered in Silas's eyes, a smile finally breaking
through his serious demeanour. One hand firmly enveloped her smaller one, while
the other slid the stunning pink diamond onto her finger.
The fit was perfect. The stone, a river of frozen pink light, sat
elegantly on her slender, pale finger, a symbol of breathtaking luxury that
looked like it had been destined for her hand alone.
"Exquisite," he breathed, the word laden with more than just
approval. It was possession, awe, and satisfaction. He brought her hand to his
lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that was so gentle, so devout, it sent a
shiver straight down her spine.
When he looked up, his eyes held the light of a thousand stars, a whole
galaxy swirling in their depths. "Consider this a promise," he said,
his thumb stroking the jewel now settled on her finger. "A token for now.
Wear it as you please, even if just for fun. The true symbols—our wedding
bands—are being crafted. They will be ready for us soon."
For a moment, she was speechless. "Okay," Elara breathed, the
word barely a whisper. Her skin still hummed where his lips had touched it. She
glanced down at her hand, now adorned with a stone so magnificently large and
flawless it felt less like jewellery and more like a crown—obscenely beautiful
and impossibly conspicuous. Wear it for fun? The thought was almost laughable.
She'd need a armoured car and a security detail for a trip to the corner store.
But one look at the sheer, unguarded pride shining on his face—a look so rare
it stole her breath—and any protest died on her tongue.
In the driver's seat, Andy, who had been mastering the art of becoming
one with the upholstery, felt his lungs constrict. He choked back a strangled
cough.
For fun?!
That was the "Pink Star's Echo," the 300-million-dollar
legendary diamond Silas had secured in a brutal, no-holds-barred auction at
Sotheby's two years prior. The one Miss Annabelle had openly coveted for
seasons, dropping hints like grenades, only to be met with cold, dismissive
silence.
And now… it was a casual proposal ring? A plaything?
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his palms slick with sweat. He
didn't dare glance in the rearview mirror. If Miss Annabelle ever laid eyes on
that rock on Elara Hayes's finger, the resulting explosion wouldn't just be
nuclear—it would reshape the very social landscape of Oakhaven.
The civil registry, having been opened specially for them, was a
whirlwind of efficiency. The staff, all smiles and deference, processed them
with swift precision. Interviews, forms, signatures, IDs, and vows spoken
before a beaming officiant—it was over in a blur. There was no mandatory
waiting period, no cooling-off law that couldn't be bent by Silas Thorne's
influence.
Back in the car, the two pieces of marriage certificates in her lap felt
surreal. Elara traced the embossed script: Certificate of Marriage. She was
married. To Silas Thorne.
"Happy wedding, Mrs. Thorne," his voice cut through her daze,
a hint of dark amusement in his tone. His broad hand, with its network of
elegant veins, extended towards her. "I look forward to your guidance in
the years to come."
Elara blinked, then a genuine laugh escaped her. She placed her hand in
his, a firm, sealing shake. "Happy new marriage, Mr. Thorne. It seems my
future and the children's are in your hands now."
His smile didn't falter, but for a fleeting second, something dark and
unreadable flickered in his eyes. His gaze dropped unconsciously to her
stomach, hidden beneath her apricot coat.
Tomorrow. Nathaniel's fertility test results would come out tomorrow.
After leaving the registry, Silas took her to an exclusive, quiet
restaurant Nathaniel had recommended, claiming his wife had adored it during
her pregnancy. He'd even arranged for the same private chef who had managed his
wife's diet to oversee Elara's meals. The memory of her painful morning
sickness was etched in his mind; her small frame couldn't afford to lose any
strength. Her well-being was his new priority.
It was only after the meal, once she had eaten her fill and seemed
relaxed, that he broached the next subject, his voice calm but deliberate.
"We'll go to the Thorne family mansion tonight. It's time you met
the family."
Elara almost choked on her water. Her wide, startled eyes flew to his.
"So soon?" She felt utterly unprepared.
"Sooner or later, it must be done. They are all returning to
Oakhaven. It's best to get it over with." He leaned forward, his
expression turning deadly serious. "Julian will be there. But listen to
me, Elara. No matter what is said or done, you let me handle it. Do you
understand? You are my wife. That is all that matters."
The arrogance in his statement was a shield. He was drawing a line in
the sand for her, and for them.
She took a deep breath, the initial spike of panic soothed by the
unwavering certainty in his voice. "I understand," she said, the
words feeling more solid as she spoke them. She managed a small, brave smile
that didn't quite reach her worried eyes. "I'll be fine. I'll just...
stand behind you and look decorative. I'll let their words go in one ear and
out the other."
She paused, her smile faltering for just a second as a very real, primal
fear surfaced. Her voice dropped to a slightly more vulnerable pitch.
"Silas... they won't actually try to eat me alive, will they?"
A genuine grin touched his lips. "Of course not. They're
perfectly... civil."
The Thorne family mansion blazed against the dull grey dusk, every
window pouring light into the evening. Within, the air hung heavy—a mix of
tension and overly sweet perfume.
Silas's aunt, Ingrid Winslow, presided over a silk brocade sofa, her
bright yellow dress a deliberate claim on elegance. Beside her, Arthur—her
husband, muted in a complementary suit—poured tea with ceremonial care.
Nearby, Annabelle sat like a storm contained in silk and lace, dressed
by her mother to resemble something fragile and perfect. But her expression was
pure thunder—lips tight, foot tapping steadily against the sofa leg in defiance
of her mother's silent warnings.
Across the room, Julian slouched deep into a single armchair, shrouded
in black. He scrolled through the dark screen of his phone, detached, yet
acutely aware. He'd known this was coming. That mark on his father's throat at
the manor hadn't been subtle. He wasn't shocked—only numb, and faintly curious.
What kind of woman could possibly tie down Silas Thorne? Not that it changed
anything. He was still the heir. The only son. Nothing could shake that.
"Are they not here yet?"
Old Mrs. Thorne's voice sliced through the quiet as she entered on the
arm of a servant. She accepted a teacup from Ingrid with a thin, perfunctory
smile.
"Not yet," Ingrid replied, her tone impeccably smooth.
"You should have spoken to him," the matriarch said coldly. "For the
head of this family to marry on a whim—without consultation—smacks of
arrogance."
Ingrid offered no reply, sipping her tea calmly. The old woman released
a dismissive hum. The Thornes had never been like the Winslows. Silas took
after his headstrong mother, leaving only Julian who felt like hers.
"After turning down every suitable match all these years, I am… curious
to see what he's dredged up," she remarked icily. "Let us hope she isn't some
fortune-hunting opportunist."
A soft, derisive sound came from the corner.
"Hmph. Some young, pretty thing."
All eyes shifted to Annabelle, her face sharp with jealousy.
"You've seen her?" Ingrid asked, surprised.
But Annabelle only pressed her lips together, arms folding tightly
across her chest.
Just then, a hushed exclamation sounded from the hall—a servant's voice,
bright with excitement:
"Mr. Thorne has arrived!"
The room seemed to stiffen in unison. Every gaze snapped toward the
doorway, waiting.