A soft squeak of the bathroom door hinge announced Silas's
return. Behind him, a mischievous little tail—Annabelle—trailed, her earlier
storm of tears now replaced by a look of smug victory. Seeing them, Ingrid and
Elara seamlessly fell back into their light chat, a silent, mutual agreement to
keep the peace.
Elara's eyes flicked up to Silas. His ancient, weary gaze
scanned her face, and finding it soft, her lips curved in a gentle smile, he
visibly relaxed. She hadn't been given a hard time.
Ingrid watched this silent exchange and gave a mental hmph.
Bad boy. As if I'm some man-eating jackal.
"You must be starving," Silas's voice was a low rumble,
cutting through the quiet room. His hand extended toward Elara, not a question
but an offer. "Let's eat."
Three pairs of eyes—Ingrid's curious, Arthur's observant,
Annabelle's gleeful—locked onto her like radar dishes. A blush threatened to
warm her cheeks, but she placed her hand firmly in his, allowing him to pull
her up with a consideration that felt both new and thrilling.
As they moved toward the grand dining room, Silas's voice,
cool and commanding, instructed a servant. "Inform Grandmother Thorne and
Julian that dinner is served."
Elara's stomach clenched slightly. Facing Julian after…
that… seemed like a recipe for indigestion. But a moment later, a maid returned
alone.
"Lady Thorne sends her regrets; she is feeling unwell. Young Master
Julian… has retired for the evening."
A beat of silence hung in the opulent room. Silas gave a
slight, dismissive wave of his hand, and the maid vanished.
"Then we'll eat," he stated, pulling out a chair for Elara.
The Winslows didn't seem to mind the absence in the
slightest. Elara had expected a stiff, formal meal where the clink of
silverware was the only permitted sound. She was wonderfully wrong.
The scene that unfolded was nothing short of delightful.
Ingrid speared a juicy piece of steak and meticulously sawed
off a thick, fatty portion, popping the lean centre into her husband's mouth
with a practiced move.
"The doctor said your cholesterol is high, darling," she
said, her tone dripping with faux concern. "I'll take care of this nasty fat
for you."
Elara watched, intrigued. Arthur Winslow chewed the lean
meat with a look of profound resignation, a flicker of disgust in his eyes as
he swallowed. It took Elara a second to realise the truth: Ingrid adored the
fatty cuts and was using her husband's health as a convenient excuse to hoard
them all for herself.
She did it again. And again. Each time, a contented, almost
imperceptible smile played on Ingrid's lips as she savoured the rich flavour,
while Arthur endured his wife's "care" with saint-like patience.
Silas and Annabelle seemed utterly accustomed to this
ritual. Silas ignored it; Annabelle just rolled her eyes and focused on her
plate. Elara felt a genuine smile tug at her lips. The mighty Winslows were…
cute. And hilariously human.
A perfectly cut piece of steak appeared on her plate. "Stop
spectating and eat," Silas murmured, his voice a low, intimate whisper that
vibrated through her. It was laced with a kind of helpless fondness, like a
parent coaxing a distracted child.
"Mhmm," she agreed, her face heating, hoping the
Winslows hadn't caught his tone.
They had.
Ingrid's eyebrows shot up. Silas? Our Silas? Using that
tone? She shot a look at her husband, who raised his brows in return. You don't
get that blessing, how would I?
Ingrid pouted and turned back to her food, just as Annabelle
decided to test the new waters.
"Cousin Silas," she chirped, batting her eyelashes. "I'd
like a piece of steak, too." She stared at him, waiting expectantly.
Silas had just added a spoonful of fresh salad to Elara's
plate. He glanced at Annabelle, his expression utterly deadpan. "I believe I
taught you the importance of self-reliance."
Annabelle's jaw dropped. The double standard was so blatant
it was almost artistic. She looked from the steak on Elara's plate to her
cousin's unyielding face, letting out an indignant huff.
Before she could muster a full-scale whine, Elara, feeling
awkward, subtly bumped her knee against Silas's thigh under the table.
A slight pause. A ghost of a smile touched his eyes. He set
down his cutlery, served a portion of golden fries, and placed the plate before
a stunned Annabelle.
"Don't make a habit of it," he said, his voice stern but his
action speaking volumes.
Annabelle's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Thank you,
Cousin Silas!"
Elara hid her smile in her soup spoon. He'd listened.
A moment later, a series of pointed, dry coughs came from
across the table. Arthur Winslow was suddenly having a very hard time with his
meal.
"Arthur, darling!" Ingrid exclaimed, patting his back with
dramatic concern. "Is your throat too dry? You simply must have some soup to
moisten it." Her eyes flickered meaningfully toward Silas as she emphasised
"have some soup."
Elara's knee found Silas's thigh again under the table, this
time with more urgency.
Without a word, Silas reached for the ladle. He filled two
bowls of the rich, aromatic tomato soup and placed them before his aunt and
uncle.
"Ingrid. Arthur. The soup," he said, his voice even.
Ingrid's heart swelled almost to bursting. She could have
cried. The entire meal—the tomato soup, the shepherd's pie, the delicate
cupcakes she knew were Elara's favourites—was all Silas's doing. He'd planned
it for her.
For a split second, she was jealous. Arthur had never been
so thoughtfully besotted. But the feeling was washed away by sheer joy. Her boy
had finally become a man.
"You hear that, Arthur?" she said, pushing the bowl toward
his reluctant lips, her hand a firm pressure on his back. "Silas served this
himself. It will do wonders for your cough."
Arthur, who detested tomatoes, looked positively green but
dutifully sipped the sour broth under his wife's unwavering glare. Suffering,
he thought. This is pure suffering.
Ingrid giggled behind her hand, and soon, Annabelle's
silver-bell laughter joined in. Elara finally understood the game, and a soft,
happy laugh escaped her own lips.
The meal was perfect.
Later, back in the sitting room, Ingrid disappeared for a
moment and returned with a small, weighty box. She pressed it into Elara's
hands.
"I didn't bring much to Ashbourne, dear. These are just
trinkets for now. When you return to Oakhaven with Silas, I'll have proper
gifts sent."
Elara opened the box. Her eyes widened. Nestled inside were
nine solid gold bars, gleaming under the lights. They were heavy, blatantly
valuable, and utterly hilarious.
She swallowed a laugh, meeting Ingrid's earnest gaze. "Thank
you, Ingrid. They're… wonderful."
"Good girl," Ingrid said, pleased by her gracious
acceptance. Her expression softened, growing more serious. "I wish you and
Silas a long and happy life together. My sister, Eleanor… she left us too soon.
Silas is like my own. Take good care of him for me."
Her eyes then drifted to where Silas sat, his posture
deceptively lazy as he lounged on the sofa beside Elara. His arm was stretched
along the backrest behind her, a possessive, protective curve that didn't go
unnoticed. A shadow of concern passed behind Ingrid's eyes.
"You'll stay at the old mansion tonight," she informed
Silas, her tone leaving no room for argument. It was an order. A warning.
Silas held her solemn gaze for a long moment, then turned to
Elara. "We'll stay tonight and leave in the morning?"
"Of course," Elara agreed easily. She wouldn't dream of
refusing Ingrid.
After a while, a blushing Annabelle tugged Elara away,
claiming she had "girl talk" to share, leaving the three adults alone in the
quiet room.
The moment the girls were out of earshot, Ingrid's facade of
levity vanished. She turned a stern gaze on Silas, her voice dropping to a
hushed, urgent whisper.
"Silas Thorne," she began, her use of his full name signalling
her seriousness. "That girl is a treasure. Tell me the truth, you bad boy… when
you married her, did you tell her you can't have children?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and stark.
"Because if you didn't," she finished, her voice hardening,
"that's not just a mistake. That's fraud."