The air in the training hall was thick enough to choke on.
Compared to Elara's nervous flutter, the Winslow couple's faces were stormy
masks of disapproval. Only Annabelle seemed immune to the tension, buzzing with
an energy that was entirely out of place.
"Do it," Julian's voice was a low challenge, his gaze locked
on his father.
Silas didn't even blink. He just stood there, impossibly
still, a human statue waiting for the verdict.
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat
of fear. Her eyes were frozen wide, every muscle taut as she watched Julian's
arm snap forward.
Swish.
The throwing knife became a silver streak, a lethal blur
shooting straight for Silas's head. Elara's breath hitched in her throat, her
world narrowing to that deadly trajectory.
Thump.
The sound was absurdly mundane. The apple, perfectly
impaled, tumbled from Silas's head and hit the floor with a soft thud.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over Elara. Her limbs went
weak, and she became acutely aware of the cold sweat plastering her blouse to
her back. She hadn't realised she'd been holding her breath.
Silas bent down, retrieving the skewered apple. He drew the
knife free with a soft shuck and, without even looking, flicked his wrist. The
blade embedded itself dead-centre in the wooden target behind him with a
satisfying thwack.
"Not bad," Silas remarked, his voice a low, calm rumble that
seemed to absorb all the chaos in the room. "Your precision has improved."
Julian's chest swelled with pride, a confident smirk playing
on his lips. The praise from his formidable father was a rare and heady drug.
But that smirk vanished as he watched his father's casual,
masterful throw. The reality of Silas's unparalleled skill was a bucket of ice
water.
"Your turn."
Julian's eyes dropped. A same red apple appeared in his line
of sight, held by a hand with clearly defined tendons and a powerful, polished
forearm that spoke of quiet strength. Julian took a deep, steadying breath,
accepted the fruit, and walked to the mark with a resolve he didn't entirely
feel.
He placed the apple on his head, standing ramrod straight as
Silas took his position across the room. The older man spun a fresh throwing
knife effortlessly around his fingers, the cold steel glinting under the
lights.
"You're so cool, Cousin Silas!" Annabelle chirped, breaking
the silence.
Julian's jaw tightened.
Silas's gaze flickered toward Annabelle, a faint, almost
imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes locked back on
Julian. The lazy confidence vanished, replaced by a predator's focus. His body
coiled with latent power, his piercing gaze pinning Julian in place like a
butterfly to a board.
Under that intense stare, Julian felt a cold dread seep into
his bones. This wasn't a practice match anymore. His father looked at him not
as a son, but as a target.
The knife lifted.
Time seemed to slow. Julian's palms grew slick. In the
depths of his father's cold, unreadable eyes, he saw not a man aiming for an
apple, but a force of nature about to strike.
A horrifying, traitorous thought exploded in his mind. What
if his aim is off? What if the target isn't the apple? What if it's me?
The thought was a spark that ignited pure instinct. Before
his brain could process it, his body reacted.
He flinched.
It was just a tiny, involuntary jerk to the side. But it was
enough.
The knife whistled past his ear, a whisper of death, missing
the apple entirely and clattering uselessly on the stone floor behind him.
The sound echoed in the dead silence.
Julian stood frozen, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo
against his ribs. The apple remained, untouched, on his head—a monument to his
failure.
"You moved." Silas's voice cut through the quiet, cold and
final. "You've lost. Accept the result."
Lost?
The word didn't make sense. He hadn't been hit. The throw
had missed. But deep down, he knew. He hadn't trusted his father. He had lost
his nerve. He had lost everything.
His eyes, wide and shell-shocked, could only follow as Silas
turned his back and walked calmly toward Elara. He watched his father's large
hand envelop her smaller one, a gesture of possession and protection. He saw
the way Elara looked up at Silas—not with the starry-eyed adoration she'd once
had for him, but with something deeper, more profound.
That girl, who was supposed to be his, was now being gently
claimed by the one man he could never hope to beat.
Stepmother.
The title echoed cruelly in his mind, each syllable a fresh
cut. How could he ever accept that? How could he ever call her that?
A dense, crushing pain radiated from his chest, robbing his
legs of strength. With a graceless, bone-jarring thud, his knees hit the cold,
hard floor.
He didn't even feel the impact.
Silas paused, glancing back over his shoulder at his son's
crumpled form. He observed the scene for a beat, his expression unreadable.
"Find two people to help Young Master Julian back to his
room," he instructed a servant, his voice devoid of any emotion.
"Yes, Mr. Thorne."
Elara's gaze also fell upon Julian—the boy she once thought
she loved, now broken and defeated on the floor. And in that moment, she felt a
surprising emptiness where she expected pity. Her heart had simply… moved on.
Back in the opulent living room, Silas left to wash up, with
an adoring Annabelle trailing behind him like a happy shadow. This left Elara
alone under the heavy, scrutinising gaze of the Winslow couple.
She folded her hands neatly in her lap, back straight,
projecting a calm she didn't feel. Ingrid Winslow's eyes were like laser beams,
trying to dissect her layer by layer.
After the scene with Julian, their coldness was
understandable. What family wouldn't resent the woman who caused a rift between
father and son?
Ingrid's voice broke the silence, sharp and precise. "Elara,
how old are you?"
Elara let out a subtle breath she didn't realise she'd been
holding. A simple question was a start. "I just turned twenty-one, Ingrid."
Saying the name felt easier this time, almost natural. She
studied Ingrid—flamboyant, strong, and seemingly severe, but she hadn't been
openly hostile. Perhaps there was a chance.
The name, spoken in Elara's soft, melodic tone, gave Ingrid
a slight pause. It sounded… strangely sweet. Her eyes then dropped to the
magnificent pink diamond sparkling on Elara's finger. That reckless nephew
of mine, she thought. He doesn't do things by halves.
"Twenty-one," Ingrid repeated, a hint of disbelief colouring
her tone. She shot a pointed look at her husband, Arthur. A cradle robber,
that's what he is. Sixteen years her senior. Does he feel no shame?
She pressed on, her tone a fraction softer. "When are you
planning the wedding?" She assumed an engagement was the extent of it so far.
Elara hesitated, unsure how much Silas had shared. "We… we
actually obtained our marriage license today," she said truthfully.
Ingrid's eyebrows shot up. She glared at her husband again,
a clear 'See? He doesn't tell us a thing!' look. She took a deep,
steadying breath, trying to maintain her composure.
"I see," she said, her voice tighter. "And did Silas say
when he intends to take you to Oakhaven?"
Elara's calm facade faltered. "Oakhaven?" The question took
her completely by surprise. Going to his family estate? It was a future Silas
had never once mentioned.
The genuine confusion on Elara's face was all the answer
Ingrid needed. A slow realisation dawned on her.
Oh, you clever, manipulative man, she thought, a grudging
respect mixing with her irritation. She looked at Elara—young, beautiful, and
clearly utterly in the dark about the dynastic storm she'd just married into.
In that moment, Ingrid believed every word of Julian's angry
accusation. Silas hadn't just won this girl. He had strategically acquired her,
and he'd done it without giving her, or anyone else, a full map of the
battlefield.