The tension in the Thorne living room was a palpable, heavy thing.
Annabelle's whispered revelation hung in the air, a grenade whose pin had
already been pulled.
Ingrid Winslow had just scoffed, muttering "cradle-robber" under her
breath, when a sharp crash shattered the silence. A teacup lay in pieces on the
polished wooden floor, its dark contents spreading like a stain.
All eyes snapped from the mess to the source of the sound: Old Lady
Thorne. Her face was a mask of thunderous shock, her hand trembling as she
pointed a bony finger toward the doorway. Her mouth worked, but no sound came
out.
And Julian… Julian was on his feet. His lean frame was rigid, his fists
clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. His face had drained of all colour,
his eyes wide with a horrifying, dawning comprehension. He stared, unblinking,
at the two figures now framed in the entrance.
Silas Thorne, impeccable in a dark brown tweed coat that emphasised his
broad shoulders and straight posture, stood with an air of unshakeable
authority. And tucked securely against his side, her small form dwarfed by his,
was a girl.
She wore a matching coat, a beige knitted dress, and soft lambskin
boots. Curls of dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and a chic beret sat
atop her head, making her delicate, porcelain features seem even more
doll-like. She was stunningly beautiful, just as Annabelle had said.
But to Julian, she was a ghost. A beautiful, heartbreaking ghost.
"...Dad?" The word was a strangled whisper, torn from a place of pure,
unadulterated agony. "It's not… it's not true, is it? This is some… sick joke."
He couldn't process it. The world tilted on its axis. His Elara. The
love of his life. The woman he'd wronged and dreamed of winning back… was in
his father's arms.
Silas paid no mind to the shattered china or the shattered son. His gaze
swept coolly over his aunt and uncle before he guided Elara to the sofa
opposite them. He didn't just hold her hand; he laced his fingers through hers,
a possessive, intimate gesture that spoke volumes. It was a side of the
formidable Silas Thorne none of them had ever witnessed.
Julian's breath hitched. He looked like a man witnessing his own
execution.
"I see you've been introduced to the news," Silas's voice was calm,
cutting through the thick silence like a blade. He turned, and the ice in his
eyes thawed just for her. "But allow me to make the formal introduction. This
is my wife, Elara Thorne." His gaze returned to the room. "Elara, my aunt,
Ingrid Winslow, and my uncle, Arthur."
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. The weight of their
stares—Ingrid's sharp curiosity, Arthur's disapproval, the Old Lady's venom,
and Julian's utter devastation—was almost suffocating. She took a steadying
breath, gently extracting her hand from Silas's to stand. She offered a slight,
respectful bow.
"Aunt Ingrid. Uncle Arthur," she said, her voice clear and melodic, yet unwavering.
The polite address, the confirmation of her new title, was the final
twist of the knife.
A sound erupted from Julian—a broken, disbelieving laugh that held no humour,
only madness. "Hah… haha… Dad?" he choked out, taking a stumbling step forward.
"So what does that make me? What am I supposed to call her now?"
Silas's cold eyes finally settled on his son. "Anything other than her
name is your choice."
The casual dismissal unleashed the beast. Julian's face contorted into a
grimace of pain and fury. "My choice?" he roared, the sound raw and guttural.
"How about 'Mom'? Would you like that, Dad? For me to call the woman I love
'Mother'?"
He jabbed a finger toward Elara, who flinched but held her ground. Silas
rose smoothly to his feet, a protective wall standing beside his wife.
"If you can manage it," Silas replied, his tone dangerously even. "I
have no objection."
The sheer audacity, the complete lack of remorse, shattered the last of
Julian's control. "SHE IS MY WOMAN!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "She was
my girlfriend! Or did you forget that? She called you Uncle! You're marrying my
ex-girlfriend! I am your son! How can you have so little shame?"
The room plunged into a deathly silence. Ingrid and Arthur looked as if
they'd been slapped. Annabelle's jaw was practically on the floor, her eyes
darting between the three of them in scandalised fascination.
Old Lady Thorne found her voice, shrill and trembling with rage. "Silas!
Have you lost your mind? Stealing your own son's girlfriend? This is… this is
perverse! Where is your honour? If this gets out, the Thorne name will be the
laughingstock of the entire city!"
Through it all, Silas remained an unmovable glacier. But Elara felt the
storm raging inside him through the subtle tension in his arm. His calm was for
her benefit. She curled her fingers around his, drawing strength from his solid
presence.
She took a deep breath and stepped slightly out of his shadow, her clear
eyes locking directly onto Julian's tormented ones.
"Julian, you lost the right to yell about who I am the moment I found
you in bed with my best friend," she stated, her voice cold and sharp as
diamond. Every word was deliberate, meant to wound. "You were dumped. By me. We
have been over for a long time."
She let that hang in the air, ensuring everyone absorbed the truth he'd
clearly omitted. "Who I marry is my freedom. Your father is a single man. I am
a single woman. We have wronged no one. We have broken no law. The only person
here without a shred of honour or decency is you, and you have no right to
question him, or me."
As her final word echoed, Silas's large hand enveloped hers completely,
a silent show of absolute solidarity.
The new information shifted the atmosphere. Ingrid's judgmental gaze
flickered to Julian with newfound distaste.
Julian stared, the anger bleeding from his face to be replaced by a
desperate, pathetic hope. "I know…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I know
why you're doing this, Elara. You're punishing me. You hate me for what I did,
so you're marrying my father to torture me. This is all to get back at me,
isn't it?"
The arrogance of it almost took her breath away.
"You flatter yourself, Julian," she retorted, her lip curling. "You are
not worth the price of my future. Not even close."
The rejection was absolute, final. He flinched as if struck.
"You're lying!" he suddenly shouted, the pain morphing back into a
frantic, possessive rage. He lunged forward, his hand outstretched to grab her
arm. "You have to be lying!"
Silas moved faster. In an instant, he was between them, his body a
formidable barrier. His voice dropped to a low, thunderous rumble that vibrated
through the floorboards. "Enough. You will control yourself. Now. Quit making a
scene."
"I'm making a scene?" Julian laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "You've
ignored me my whole life, and now you swoop in and steal the one thing I ever
truly loved? And you tell me to stop? By what right?"
His eyes burned with a mixture of hatred and agony as he glared at his
father. "Answer me this, oh honourable father. You knew I loved her. You knew I
brought her here, hoping for your blessing. Even if we broke up, she is my
past! How could you? What was your plan?!"
A terrible, paranoid thought seized him, widening his eyes. "Did you…
did you tell her? Did you plant the seed about me and Vivian? Was this your
design all along? You wanted her for yourself and you… you engineered our
breakup?"
The accusation hung in the air, monstrous and shocking. He had finally
crossed a line from which there was no return. The room held its breath,
waiting for the explosion.