The following morning, Elara found Silas's room empty. Descending the
stairs, she discovered he'd already left for the office—another early departure
she'd missed while sleeping in the guest room, a self-imposed exile born from
her anger over his hidden injury.
Descending the stairs, she was met by the ever-attentive Martha.
"Mrs. Thorne, good morning. Mr. Thorne has already left. He was most
insistent that you eat a proper breakfast and asked me to inform you he will
return at noon to have lunch with you."
Martha's smile was warm and genuine. Having served Silas for two
decades, seeing him married, expectant, and so fiercely protective of his young
wife filled her with a deep contentment.
"Thank you, Martha," Elara replied, a flush of
self-consciousness warming her cheeks. "Would you care to join me?"
"Oh, no, I've already eaten. My only task is to ensure you do. Mr.
Thorne mentioned the morning sickness has been severe. I've already consulted
the live-in nutritionist. We'll prepare dishes that are both light and
appealing to your palate."
Elara offered a grateful smile. The fact that Silas had shared her
pregnancy with Martha spoke volumes about his trust in the housekeeper. He had
woven a protective cocoon around her, and she was simultaneously grateful and
frustrated by its confines.
Just as she finished her meal and stepped into the sun-drenched
courtyard, she saw Ben approaching. He wasn't alone. A young woman walked
beside him, her stride as purposeful and silent as his. Dressed head-to-toe in
black, she moved with a panther-like grace. Her features were striking—sharp
and defined, with eyes that scanned her surroundings with a calculated
intensity.
Is this Ben's girlfriend? Elara wondered, intrigued by the woman's
formidable aura.
"Mrs. Thorne," Ben said, his voice cutting through her
thoughts. "This is Brooke. She arrived from Oakhaven last night. Per the
Boss's directive, she is now assigned as your personal bodyguard and
assistant."
Brooke stepped forward, giving a sharp, professional nod. Her expression
was unreadable. "Mrs. Thorne. Your safety and your needs are my primary
concerns. You may entrust me with any matter."
Elara recovered from her surprise and extended her hand with a warm
smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Brooke. I'll be in your care."
Brooke's gaze dropped to Elara's offered hand for a moment before she
took it in a brief, firm handshake. Her palm was rough with calluses, a stark
contrast to Elara's soft skin, and she withdrew almost instantly, as if afraid
her touch might be too abrasive. Elara noted the hesitation, filing it away as
a quirk to respect.
At exactly noon, Silas's Rolls-Royce crunched over the gravel driveway.
He found Elara in the library, a book open but unread on her lap.
"I hear you've met Brooke," he stated, his voice a low rumble
as he entered.
"I have. She's... impressive," Elara replied, carefully
neutral.
"She's the best. She will keep you safe." He didn't wait for a
reply. "I have news. The post on Aeternum's internal network has been
taken down. Our legal team served the author with a notice."
"And?" Elara prompted, setting her book aside.
"It was a hacked employee account. The writer was paid by an
anonymous source to post the initial rumour and decided to 'embellish' it for
more clicks. He didn't expect our IT team to trace him so efficiently."
Silas's lip curled in a cold smirk. "The trail ends with him. For
now."
"The other piece of news," he continued, his tone shifting,
"Julian and Vivian obtained their marriage certificate this morning. My
grandmother is insisting we all dine at the ancestral home tonight. A formal...
acknowledgment."
She felt a weary resignation. This
confrontation was simply the latest skirmish in a long war.
The Rolls-Royce glided to a halt in the ancestral home's courtyard at
six p.m. A black Mercedes G-Class was already parked there—Julian and Vivian
had arrived first.
Brooke was out of the passenger seat in an instant, opening the rear
door. Silas emerged, then turned, his hand finding the small of Elara's back as
he guided her through the imposing main gate and into the opulent living room.
The scene was set like a stage play. Old Lady Thorne held court from the
central sofa, a queen on her throne. Julian and Vivian sat on a lower sofa
opposite them. Vivian, a splash of defiant crimson in her bright red coat, sat
with a serene smile, her posture perfectly poised beside Julian. The picture of
harmony.
"Father. Stepmother," Julian said, rising smoothly and pulling
Vivian up with him. His voice was a model of respect.
Vivian's eyes met Elara's, and the word "Stepmother" dripped
from her lips with a sweetness that felt like a shard of glass. A cold unease
prickled down Elara's spine.
Silas merely gave a curt nod, guiding Elara to the sofa opposite. As a
maid approached with tea, his voice cut through the formal silence. "The
mistress does not drink tea. Bring her warm water."
The maid scurried away.
Old Lady Thorne took a slow, deliberate sip from her own cup, her sharp
eyes flicking from Elara's face to her stomach before settling on Silas.
"Silas. Forgive an old woman's sentimentality. Since you've given your
blessing for Julian to marry Vivian, she is now a daughter of the Thorne
family. The young may forgo a ceremony, but we elders must uphold tradition. We
must perform the Rite of the Heirloom Chest and Key. We are here to bear
witness."
Silas leaned back, the picture of relaxed authority. His right hand
rested on his knee, his left casually taking the glass of water from the
returning maid and handing it to Elara.
"Propriety must be observed," he agreed, his tone deceptively
mild. "We will proceed."
Satisfaction gleamed in the old matriarch's eyes. She nodded to the
butler. "Fetch the chest and the key from my quarters."
A heavy silence descended upon the room, broken only by the butler's
retreating footsteps. Elara sipped her water, her face a mask of calm. Let the
storm come, she thought. Silas is the one who controls the weather here.
The butler returned, bearing a large tray. On it rested the Heirloom
Chest.
It was a profound object, carved from a single block of russet mahogany
that seemed to absorb the very light in the room. The lid was a masterpiece of
inlaid mother-of-pearl and silver, depicting the Thorne family crest—a hawk in
mid-flight, a single, thorned rose clutched in its talons.
Silas stood and took the chest. His presence dominated the space.
"For every new branch on our family tree," he intoned, his voice
echoing in the quiet room, "a new custodian is chosen." He held the
chest out to Vivian. "This contains not your worth, but your place in this
family."
Vivian's eyes glinted with a voracious hunger she couldn't fully
suppress. This was it—the tangible proof of her victory. She accepted the heavy
box not with reverence, but with a covetous grip, her fingers tracing the
mother-of-pearl hawk as if already counting its value. A triumphant glance,
sharp and fleeting, darted toward Elara. See? it seemed to say. I'm one of you
now.
Then, it was Elara's turn. She rose gracefully, a slender, palladium key
resting on her palm. It was fashioned in the shape of the Thorne hawk, its
wings forming the bow, its body the grip. "And this," Elara said, her
voice soft yet carrying an undeniable weight, "is our trust. To guard our
past, and to help build our future."
Vivian snatched the key, her eagerness making the movement jerky. The
click of the lock was not a sacred sound but the crack of a vault door swinging
open. When she lifted the lid, her breath hitched at the sight of the deed and
the wine. She saw assets and leverage, not heirlooms.
"The chest is now yours," Silas stated, his gaze piercing as
he watched her reaction. "The first duty of its custodian is to add
something of their own. A symbol of the new strength you bring to this
family."
Julian's hand came to rest on the small of Vivian's back, not as a
gesture of love, but a calculated signal of ownership and alliance. His smile
was a cold, political thing, directed at his father. "We understand the
responsibility," he said, his voice smooth. He had his heir on the way and
now his wife held a symbol of the dynasty. His position felt more secure than
ever. Vivian preened under his touch, mistaking cold strategy for warm
approval, her heart soaring with the belief that she was finally, undeniably,
winning.
Then came the tea ceremony. As Vivian moved to kneel, a
performance of false humility on her lips, Julian's voice cut in with practiced
concern. "Father, Vivian is with child. The kneeling is too much. She will
offer the tea standing."
Silas's gaze was glacial. He didn't even look at Vivian, his
eyes fixed on some distant point as if the matter was too trivial for his full
attention. "If she is so fragile, then she need not offer me tea at
all," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. "A single
gesture will suffice. She may raise her glass to my wife."
The dismissal was so absolute, so insulting in its
casualness, that Vivian's carefully constructed smile shattered. Rage flashed
in her eyes, hot and bright, before she could school her features.
But it was Elara who commanded the room. A slow, victorious
smile touched her lips—not broad, but sharp enough to cut. She didn't need to
look at Silas; she felt his power thrumming in the air around them, a shield he
wielded without a second thought. She merely tilted her chin, a queen
acknowledging a subject, and met Vivian's furious gaze with icy calm.
In that moment, she understood the ultimate power was not in
fighting for a man's attention, but in having it so completely that he would
dismantle your enemies with a single, offhand sentence. And as she held
Vivian's seething stare, Elara knew with chilling certainty: the girl had the
ring and the chest, but she would never, ever have the throne.