Silas's vague reply hung in the air, a masterclass in deflection.
Leaning against the Rolls-Royce, his attention was captured not by Ingrid's
frantic energy, but by the sight through the restaurant window: Elara, her face
alight with a laugh, a beacon of warmth in his cold, calculated world.
Ingrid, on the other end, paused, processing his non-answer before
drawing a sharp, emotional breath. "You stubborn, impossible man! I told
you for years to get a proper medical consultation, but you were too proud!
There's no shame in a medical condition, but you let your damned male ego get
in the way of everything!"
Her voice softened into a frantic, hopeful urgency. "Well, now that
you're… functional… you'd better not waste any time. A child with Elara, Silas,
do you hear me? You're pushing forty, and those cigarettes you're always
smoking—you need to quit! Right now! We can't have you compromising the baby's
health with your bad habits."
He could hear the frantic pacing, the sound of her mind whirring a mile
a minute. "Oh, thank the heavens. Thank heavens you married a young,
healthy girl. Maybe her good genes can cancel out your… well, your
stubbornness. The child might still have a chance."
A dry, exasperated laugh escaped Silas. "Didn't you and Arthur have
Annabelle when he was nearly fifty? Or have you conveniently forgotten? Arthur
smoked a pack a day and drank like a fish. Is Annabelle stupid? Is she
ugly?"
"…" The line went silent for a beat. Ingrid halted mid-pace,
thoroughly chastised. She huffed, hastily changing the subject as her tone
shifted from familial nagging to business-like sharpness. "Well,
procreation isn't a race. Let's discuss something else. Italy. What's the
situation? My sources tell me you've detained Valenti's youngest son. The old
man can't reach you and is tearing the continent apart—he even had the audacity
to come sniffing around my doorstep."
"Mhm," Silas responded, the sound lazy and unconcerned. His
hand moved instinctively to his breast pocket for a cigarette, finding it
empty. "I was ambushed by Valenti's men. This matter is far from settled.
He wants his boy back? He can have him… after I've decided I'm bored with
him."
Ingrid's voice turned to ice, laced with a protective ferocity that was
uniquely hers. "That old snake dared to attack my nephew and then comes
begging? You make sure his son regrets the day he was born! If you need to make
an example of him, you have my full backing!"
She took a steadying breath, the fury receding into genuine concern.
"How bad was it? Are you hurt?"
His voice was steady, but she knew him too well. He would always
downplay it.
"A graze. It's nothing."
"Nothing?!" she exploded. "You foolish boy, you are my
flesh and blood! I have a right to know if you so much as stub your toe! Do you
think carrying your wounds in silence makes you look strong? It makes you look
like a stubborn idiot! You could learn a thing or two from Arthur—he knows how
to make a fuss so people take care of him."
"So you'd prefer I run to you with every scratch?" Silas
retorted, a headache beginning to pulse at his temples. "Is that what this
is about?"
"Don't you twist my words! I'm saying you keep too much to
yourself! I bet you're hiding it from that sweet wife of yours, too. What
happens when she finds out you've been lying by omission? Aren't you afraid
she'll realise she married a fortress instead of a man and decide to
leave?"
The barb struck a nerve, closer to the truth than he cared to admit.
"Enough," he said, his voice laced with a wry resignation. "The
point is moot. Elly already knows. So, can we drop it?"
Learn from Arthur? Only Ingrid would buy that performance. Arthur, who
would dramatically present a paper cut for her sympathy, knew exactly how to
wrap her around his finger.
Ingrid finally let the matter rest, her thoughts snapping back to her favourite
new project. "Fine. But you're bringing Elara back to Oakhaven soon. I'll
have the chef and the nanny prepare a proper nourishing meal for you both.
These things… well, functionality is one thing, but conceiving requires a
certain… vitality. It's not an automatic process, you know."
"…"
Silas nearly choked on his own indignation. He was perfectly,
exceptionally functional, and if all went to plan, her coveted grandchild was
already on the way. But arguing would only prolong this agony. He swallowed the
retort, deciding the proof would be far more satisfying than any assurance he
could give now.
"I'm ending the call," he stated flatly.
"Wait, Silas, I—"
The line went dead.
Ingrid stared at her phone, a mix of frustration and affection on her
face. "That bloody boy! Can't stand a little caring advice from his
aunt?"
Arthur, who had been waiting patiently, approached. "Well, my love?
Is it true? Can he really…?"
His question reignited her joy. Without warning, she grabbed his face,
stood on her toes, and planted a firm, smacking kiss on his forehead.
"Arthur! He can! Silas can have children! We're going to be grandparents!
Aren't you thrilled?"
Before he could even form a word, she spun on her heel, a wide,
determined grin on her face as she marched toward the kitchen. "I need to
send the housekeeper to the market immediately! We need the best ingredients
for restorative soups. That boy needs building up!"
Arthur simply smiled, a soft, fond expression on his face as he touched
the spot on his forehead. Then, like a loyal satellite, he followed his wife.
When Silas returned to the table, Ben was already back in his seat
beside a very quiet Chloe. The food had arrived, but the atmosphere was
palpably divided.
On one side, Silas and Elara existed in their own bubble. He refilled
her water glass without being asked; she nudged a dish she knew he'd like
closer to him. It was a quiet, intimate dance that required no words.
On the other side, Chloe kept her head down, focusing on her plate as if
it contained the secrets of the universe, determined to avoid witnessing the
silent, loved-up conversation happening across from her.
Ben, for his part, found the proximity to a chattering woman more
unnerving than a hostile takeover. He efficiently devoured his meal in a few,
swift bites, then stood abruptly. "Boss, I'll go and ensure the car is
ready." He was out the door before anyone could respond, his retreat as
strategic as a military manoeuvre.
Chloe's eyes flickered up, watching his broad, retreating back for a
moment before she returned to studying her food.
Once the meal was over and Silas had moved to the front to settle the
bill, Chloe saw her chance. She unlocked her phone and thrust it toward Elara,
her voice a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. "Hey. If you're my real best
friend, you'll do me a solid. Get me the ice cube's number."
Elara blinked, confused. "The what?"
"You know!" Chloe hissed, a faint blush creeping up her neck.
"The walking glacier who was just sitting here! Your husband's bodyguard.
What's his name? Ben? I need his number."
Elara's eyes widened in dawning realisation. "Chloe… you're not…
interested in Ben, are you?" The idea was as shocking as it was
intriguing. Chloe, all fire and social charm, and Ben, a man of few words and
colder demeanour than a winter storm.
"Don't be ridiculous!" Chloe waved a dismissive hand, though
her blush deepened. "It's just… networking. It's always good to have
connections, right? Especially… sturdy ones."
She was acting on a pure, impulsive whim, a desire to crack the code of
that silent, imposing man. But once they walked out of this café, would the
feeling last? She wasn't sure.
"Quickly!" Chloe urged, glancing toward the front where Silas
was concluding the transaction. "Add his contact before your husband comes
back."
Elara hesitated. "I could just text it to you later…"
"Now is better!" Chloe insisted, her eyes pleading.
Sighing in amused surrender, Elara took the phone. "…Alright."
Her fingers flew over the screen, inputting the number she'd seen Silas call a
hundred times. She had a feeling she was handing over a lit match to a block of
ice, and she had no idea which one would melt first.
Outside, settled in the driver's seat of the Rolls-Royce, Ben felt a
sudden, inexplicable chill down his spine. He remained completely unaware that
his boss's wife had just, with a few taps of a screen, irrevocably sold his
peace and quiet for the price of a friendship.