Silas made no pretence of staying a moment longer. The instant Elara
returned, her pallor still evident but her composure regained, he was on his
feet, drawing her protectively into the shelter of his arm.
"We're leaving," he announced, his voice cutting through the
thick silence. His gaze, cold and imperious, landed on Julian. "Get your
wife settled. Then, you will report to Ashbourne for managerial training. You
are not to return until it is complete."
The edict was a guillotine, severing any notion of Julian bringing
Vivian with him.
With a dismissive nod that encompassed the entire stunned room, he
guided Elara out, the heavy doors closing on a tomb of unspoken accusations and
fury.
Later, in the oppressive silence of the study, Old Lady Thorne fixed
Julian with a gimlet stare. "Sit."
He obeyed, the leather of the sofa creaking under his weight.
"Julian," she began, her voice a low, probing instrument.
"The truth, now. When was the last time you were intimate with
Elara?"
The question was a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.
Intimate? The word was a cruel joke. He had never so much as held her hand as a
lover.
"Why does it matter?" he deflected, the words grating in his
throat.
"It matters," she insisted, leaning forward, "because I
am determining the scale of your folly. Answer me."
A leaden silence filled the room before he finally muttered, "I…
can't remember."
"You can't remember?" she hissed, her composure cracking.
"I raised you to be shrewd, to play the game, not to be led around by your
desires! And look what you've caught yourself with—a common social climber,
wielding a pregnancy like a weapon. You've made yourself and this family a
laughingstock!"
"Understood," Julian replied, the word hollow, his mind a
thousand miles away.
"...I have a theory," the old woman mused, her fingers
drumming a relentless rhythm on the armrest. "Is Elara pregnant?"
Julian went utterly still, the memory of Elara's pale face and hurried
exit flashing before his eyes. The resemblance to Vivian's condition was
unnerving.
But… "Father said she had a stomach chill."
"Your father," she scoffed, the title dripping with venom.
"Do you think a man like him ever reveals his true hand? He plays a deeper
game than you can possibly imagine."
She then delivered her coup de grâce: a servant's report of Elara's
unmistakable morning sickness.
The pieces clicked into a damning picture in Julian's mind, draining the
colour from his face. If Elara was pregnant… the child wasn't his. It belonged
to that faceless man from the hotel, the consequence of the trap he'd
indirectly set. Was this why she had thrown herself at his father? To secure a
name and a fortune for another man's bastard?
Her entire demeanour tonight—the cold authority, the deliberate
humiliation—it was all a calculated revenge.
A storm of bitterness and something dangerously close to regret swirled
in his eyes.
"What is your assessment of the situation?" his great-grandmother
pressed.
"If she were pregnant, my father would have declared it to secure
the heir," Julian argued, clinging to the last shred of logic. "He
had a procedure. After decades of infertility, conception couldn't happen this
quickly. It's medically improbable."
Is it? Old Lady Thorne watched him, a cold dread settling
in her stomach. His immediate, unconsidered rejection of the idea that the
child could be his was the most telling clue of all. It meant he knew it was an
impossibility.
The situation was far more dangerous than she had feared. She needed the
truth, and she needed it now.
Silas took Elara to Le Château d'Ashbourne, where the soft lighting and
quiet elegance were a balm after the night's turmoil. Once a light, bland meal
had settled her stomach and restored the rose to her cheeks, he spoke.
"Don't waste a single thought on that old woman," he said, his
voice low and sure. "Her approval is irrelevant."
Elara looked up, her eyes soft with gratitude.
"The woman she chose for my father was a political asset, not my
mother," he explained, a lifetime of cool detachment in his tone.
"She never forgave Eleanor for capturing his heart. And she has never
forgiven me for being their son." He gave a dismissive shrug. "She
took Julian in to mould him into her puppet, a perfect heir untainted by my
influence. The civility between us is, and always has been, a
performance."
He reached across the table, his hand enveloping hers. "What you
did tonight was perfect. You are my wife. If anyone ever tries to demean you
again, you look them in the eye and dismantle them. You answer to no one."
Elara's smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. "So, you're
my shield against the world?" she teased, her eyes sparkling.
A slow, roguish grin spread across Silas's face. "Always." He
leaned in, his voice a husky murmur meant only for her. "It's my privilege
to spoil you."
"Aren't you afraid you'll create a monster?" she challenged, a
playful glint in her eyes. "What if I get a taste for power and decide to
start giving you orders?"
At that, Silas threw his head back and laughed, a deep, genuine sound of
delight. "Darling, I'd pay good money to see you try."
Back at Rosewood Manor, fatigue clung to Elara. After collecting her
nightgown and taking a long, warm bath, she emerged from the steam,
towel-drying her hair, and froze.
Silas was in her bed.
He was reclining against the headboard, clad in nothing but low-slung
navy pyjama bottoms. A book was open in his hands, but her attention was
entirely arrested by the sight of his bare chest—the sculpted planes, the
powerful shoulders, the sheer, potent virility of him. The lamplight gilded his
skin, and the white bandage on his arm only accentuated the dangerous allure.
Her breath hitched.
He chose that moment to glance up. A dark lock of hair fell over his
brow, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips curving into a lazy,
devastating smile.
"...What are you doing in here?" she managed, her voice
breathless. "Your room is down the hall. I'm going to sleep."
"No rush," he countered, his voice a low, seductive rumble.
"The prenatal education session isn't over."
Her brows drew together. Prenatal education? She was only seven weeks
along.
He closed the book and lifted the duvet in a clear invitation. "The
research is very clear. Twenty minutes of gentle stimulation. I read to them,
talk to them… let them become familiar with the sound of my voice."
Skeptical but disarmed, she approached. The moment she sat, he pulled
her into the fortress of his arms, her back fitting seamlessly against the
solid warmth of his chest.
"Close your eyes if you're tired," he murmured into her damp
hair, his breath a warm caress on her skin. "I'll be done soon.
Alright?"
Internally, he cursed this self-imposed "probation." It was a
unique form of torture. Had he known her terms included separate bedrooms, he
would have negotiated far more ruthlessly. He was a man who took what he
wanted; only his fear of her displeasure kept him in check.
Even if all he could do was hold her, the feeling of her soft, pliant
body curled against his was a universe away from the cold, empty expanse of his
own bed. And that was a battle he had no intention of losing.