Elara's attention was far from the conversation. Her gaze was fixed on
the delicate pigeon's-egg pink ring adorning her finger, a small, secret smile
playing on her lips. She was completely oblivious to the words being spoken
around her.
The sight of her serene distraction sent a spike of pure indignation
through Old Lady Thorne. How dare she be so dismissive!
"Thank you, Great-Grandmother." Vivian's voice, dripping with
false humility and delight, successfully pulled the old woman's focus back.
Patting Vivian's hand, which now fluttered near the magnificent Georgian
stomacher brooch—a cascading river of rose-cut diamonds and silver now pinned
proudly to her dress—Old Lady Thorne cooed, "My dear child." Her
sharp eyes then sliced toward Silas. "Silas, my intention is to pass this
particular piece to Julian's wife. I trust you have no objections?" Her
tone was saccharine, but the underlying message was a blade. "When a son
marries, a father should make a gesture. This old woman is merely offering her
own… modest token."
The unspoken criticism hung heavy in the air: their gift of a simple
book of rules was an insult. Moreover, the booklet Elara had produced looked
suspiciously like the one she'd given Silas's late mother, Eleanor, all those
years ago. The deliberate provocation was undeniable.
This old woman grows more foolish with each passing day, Silas thought,
his attention still half on Elara and her ring.
He lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable. "The item is yours
to bestow. Your decision is final."
A frown threatened to crease the old woman's brow, but before she could
speak, Silas rose to his feet, taking Elara's hand. His presence seemed to suck
the air from the room.
"Enough," he stated, his voice a low, commanding rumble that
brooked no argument. "The tea has been taken. The rest can wait until
after dinner." His impatience was a palpable force.
Across the room, Old Lady Thorne's grip on Vivian's wrist tightened
painfully. Vivian winced but held her tongue, a mask of gentle suffering on her
face.
In the vast, opulent dining hall, the table groaned under the weight of
an extravagant spread. Elara's eyes scanned the dishes—thick slices of rare
roast beef swimming in rich gravy, butter-glazed salmon, a game pie with a
dense, suet crust, and a platter of lamb cutlets roasted with rosemary and fat.
The air was thick with the cloying scent of roasted meat, rich gravy, and
greasy pastry, a nauseating cocktail for anyone, let alone a pregnant woman
with a sensitive stomach.
The heavy, fatty aroma of the lamb, in particular, seemed to coil
directly into her nostrils and down into her churning stomach. She took a deep,
steadying breath and reached for her water glass, her knuckles white.
Silas watched her intently. Since learning of her pregnancy, he'd
devoured every maternity book he could find. He knew this menu was a landmine.
Ugh—
The sound came from across the table. Vivian had gone pale, clapping a
hand over her mouth before scrambling from her chair and fleeing toward the
restroom.
The unmistakable sound of retching was the final trigger for Elara. Her
own stomach revolted. Covering her mouth, she hurried after Vivian, Brooke a
silent shadow behind her.
Silas was on his feet in an instant, his eyes darkening to stormy
obsidian. He took a step to follow, but seeing Brooke already on guard, he
slowly sank back into his seat.
A deafening silence descended upon the dining room.
Vivian's pregnancy was an open secret.
But Elara…?
Was it a coincidence? Or…?
The unspoken question crackled in the air. Shock registered on every
face, and all eyes swivelled toward Silas.
Old Lady Thorne looked utterly stunned.
Julian sat frozen, his body rigid.
Old Lady Thorne's eyes narrowed to slits, a triumphant, sharp gleam
flashing within them. Her suspicions were being confirmed.
Just as she drew breath to speak, Silas's icy voice cut through the
tension. "Clear these dishes. Now. Prepare something suitable for a
pregnant woman." His gaze, cold and authoritative, swept over the butler
behind the old lady. "Has the household forgotten we have an expectant
mother present? Have you forgotten your duties?"
The butler flinched, stepping forward with a deep bow. "My deepest
apologies, Master Silas. A grave oversight. I shall have the kitchen prepare
fresh dishes immediately."
As servants swarmed the table, Old Lady Thorne's expression turned
thunderous. "Silas, is this not overly domineering? If the expectant
mother cannot eat this, have alternatives made. Must the rest of us go hungry
and wait on her whims?"
The 'expectant mother' he referred to was ostensibly Vivian, but his
protective fury suggested otherwise… that Elara was also carrying a child.
The old woman's chest heaved. She took a sharp breath and launched her
probe. "Silas, what of Elara? Vivian is pregnant and suffers from severe
morning sickness. Could it be… Elara is also with child?"
The question hung in the air, sucking all the oxygen from the room.
Julian felt his heart constrict, a complex, dark emotion flooding his veins as
he stared at his father.
Silas met the old woman's gaze, his own eyes deep, unreadable pools. He
answered with dismissive casualness. "She kicked off her blankets last
night and caught a chill in her stomach. The doctor was quite clear—no greasy
or rich foods."
Julian felt an unconscious wave of relief so powerful it left him
lightheaded.
Old Lady Thorne's eyes remained narrowed, her piercing stare locked on
Silas for a long moment before she finally withdrew it, her lips pressed into a
thin, dissatisfied line.
The ancestral home was a maze of corridors. Elara, having finished being
sick and composing herself, emerged from one bathroom just as Vivian stepped
out of another further down the hall.
Their eyes met. Elara's were cold and dismissive. She turned to leave.
"Wait, Elly."
That name, spoken with such false familiarity, grated. Elara didn't
break stride.
Frustrated, Vivian moved to block her path, her hand shooting out.
In a blur of motion, Brooke was between them, her grip like a steel vice
on Vivian's wrist.
"Ah! Let go! You're hurting me!" Vivian cried out, her face
contorting in genuine pain.
Brooke's expression was impassive. She glanced at Elara for instruction.
Elara hadn't expected such swift action, but she wasn't displeased. She
fixed Vivian with an icy stare.
"A title acquired through scheming is a fragile thing,
Vivian," Elara said, her voice a silken blade. "I suggest you
remember the precariousness of your position and cease these pathetic attempts
to provoke me. We are not confidantes; we are not even equals. You are the
junior, and I am your senior. That familiar name died the moment you betrayed
me. Use it again," she continued, her voice dropping to a glacial whisper,
"and you will learn the true meaning of disrespect."
She shot a sideways glance at Brooke, who immediately released Vivian's
wrist as if it were contaminated.
"Having married into the Thorne family, you will abide by its
rules. Return home and read the code of conduct." With a final, scathing
look, Elara turned and walked away, her head held high.
Vivian clutched her throbbing wrist, her face pale with pain and fury,
glaring pure hatred at Elara's retreating back.