A stunned silence choked the grand reception hall. It was Third Uncle
Thorne who finally shattered it, his voice a disbelieving rasp. "What…
what do you mean, Silas? Speak plainly!"
Silas's gaze was a shard of ice, cold and unyielding. He lowered his
eyelids for a brief moment, as if steadying himself against the tide of his own
family's filth, before revealing the rotten core of the matriarch's deception.
With chilling calmness, he laid it bare: the matriarch's lifelong
affair, the illegitimate daughter born from it, and the decades-long scheme to
install her own bloodline as the Thorne heirs. Julian was not some random
orphan; he was the biological grandson of the matriarch's secret daughter, a
living, breathing monument to her treachery.
The horror that dawned on the elders' faces was a palpable thing. Third
Uncle's face turned a dangerous purple. With a roar of fury, he slammed his
palm onto the tea table with such force that porcelain teacups leaped into the
air, shattering on the floor in a sharp, discordant symphony.
"That shameless, venomous snake!" he bellowed, his body
trembling with rage. "I warned my brother! I told him that woman was
unscrupulous, that she would be the ruin of this family, but he was blind to
her charms!"
Auntie Madam Thorne and the others found their voices, a chorus of
seething fury. They hurled every invective they could muster at the memory of
the old woman, their voices overlapping in a venomous torrent. Had the
matriarch still been alive, she would have been drowned in their spittle.
Elara calmly lifted her cup of black tea, sipping it slowly. Her
slightly lowered lashes concealed the cold satisfaction in her eyes. Tsk.
What a pity, she thought. I should have let the old hag spar with these
vultures first. It would have been a spectacle.
"But that was merely the beginning," Silas's voice cut through
the chaos, dropping like a stone into a well. "My parents' 'accidental'
deaths... my grandfather's sudden decline... it was all her."
The subsequent revelations—the orchestrated deaths, the slow poisoning
of the old Lord Thorne—turned their faces from red to a sickly, bloodless pale.
Third Uncle clutched his chest, his beard quivering as he muttered, "A
disgrace... a monstrous disgrace to this family's name..."
"That venomous beast!" Auntie Madam Thorne gnashed her teeth,
her eyes burning with a hatred so pure it was almost holy. "After all my
eldest brother did for her! Heaven is blind to let her die so easily! It was
far too merciful! She deserved to be cut into a thousand pieces!"
Silas surveyed their reactions, his expression unmoved. The time for
sentiment was over. "I have decided," he announced, his voice
resonating with final authority, "to expunge the old matriarch and Julian
from the Thorne family register. Are there any objections?"
To such a viper? The notion was unthinkable. There was a unified, grim
shake of heads. Any previous suspicion about the nature of her death was
forgotten, replaced only by a collective regret that her end had been too swift
for proper retribution.
"Since you are all now aware of the circumstances," Silas
continued, his hawk-like gaze sweeping over each of them, "return and
ensure your branches keep their tongues. I will not tolerate any unfavourable rumours
that could destabilise the Thorne Group or make this family a
laughingstock."
The men nodded, their expressions solemn. The scandal was a grenade, and
Silas had just handed them the pin.
That very afternoon, in the solemn silence of the ancestral hall, the
names of the Old Lady Thorne and Julian were struck from the family register
with a finality that echoed through the generations.
As the elders prepared to depart, Third Uncle Thorne turned, his
expression stern once more. "Silas, since Julian is not your blood, the
matter of succession cannot be neglected. You are not a young man
anymore."
His sharp gaze then pivoted to Elara, laden with unspoken judgment.
"It was said she could bear children. Then you must produce an
heir. If her health is still unsound..." He paused, injecting a tone of
feigned, heartfelt concern. "Then you should adopt one. Your aunt's
grandson, Herman, is a fine choice. He's secured several major projects and
risen to project manager on his own merit. He's steady. A man capable of great
things."
Beside him, Auntie Madam Thorne beamed, her chest puffing with pride.
Herman was her favourite.
"Indeed, Silas," she chimed in, her voice syrupy sweet.
"You've praised his abilities yourself, said he surpassed even Julian. And
his filial piety is unmatched. Adopting him would give you a reliable right
hand. It's for the good of the family."
Her gaze then slithered to Elara, taking in her youthful beauty and
slender frame. "As for young Elara... well, these modern girls are so
lovely, aren't they? They fear childbirth will ruin their figures. And it's
such a perilous ordeal. The pain is excruciating, and once you're on that
operating table, who knows if you'll ever walk off it..."
She was in full flow, utterly oblivious to the arctic frost that had
settled on Silas's face.
"Auntie—" The single word was a blade of ice, but Elara gently
squeezed his arm, a sweet smile gracing her lips. She would handle this.
Auntie Madam Thorne, finally noticing the couple's contrasting
expressions, faltered.
"Auntie Madam Thorne, thank you for your concern," Elara
began, her voice deceptively light. "If I recall, you bore three sons,
didn't you? You must be incredibly fortunate to have cheated death three times.
And look at your lovely, rounded figure—a true testament to your great fortune.
And what an outstanding grandson you've raised."
Preening under the lavish praise, Auntie Madam Thorne's smile returned.
"But I'm confused," Elara continued, her almond-shaped eyes
wide with feigned innocence. "You make it sound so dreadful—ruining one's
figure, flirting with death. It sounds utterly terrifying. So how did you find
the courage to go through it three times? And your three daughters-in-law...
surely they've endured the same trial?"
The smile on Auntie Madam Thorne's face froze. "I-I meant no harm,
I only offered well-meaning advice..."
"And your advice is so... thoughtful," Elara's smile remained
sweet, but her eyes glinted with steel. "At your age, when you should be
enjoying your golden years, you're so concerned with the master's bedroom
affairs. And you're so selfless, willing to give up your most dutiful grandson
to care for others in their old age."
"Little Elara, what are you implying? I only meant well!"
Flustered anger now coloured the older woman's cheeks.
"Then thank you for your kindness, Auntie," Elara's smile
vanished, replaced by a cool, regal authority. "It's just that Silas and I
have no need for it."
The air grew thick with tension. Then, in a move that captivated the
entire room, Elara slipped her arm through Silas's and placed a protective hand
over her belly beneath her loose gown.
"Since all the elders are here," she announced, her voice
ringing with radiant happiness, "Silas and I would like to share our
joyful news. The doctors have confirmed it—we're expecting twins. They're
already over three months along."
She let the gasps settle before delivering the final blow, her voice
cool and definitive. "Therefore, the discussion of adoption is now
entirely unnecessary."
Auntie Madam Thorne and Third Uncle Thorne stood utterly humiliated,
their faces flushing a deep, mottled red. Stumbling over their words, they
finally managed to mutter, "Why didn't you share such joyous news
sooner?"
"Auntie," Elara replied, her eyes wide with faux bewilderment,
"surely a woman of your experience knows the first trimester must be kept
quiet? It's bad luck otherwise."
Under the weight of that clear, innocent gaze, Auntie Madam Thorne could
only flush crimson and hurry away, the bitter irony of her failed scheme
clinging to her like a shroud. Third Uncle Thorne quickly backpedaled, speaking
only of the grand banquet that must be held once the heir was born, before
making a hasty retreat.
Finally, the old Thorne residence fell into a true, deep silence.
But Silas was not done. He selected another room in the rear courtyard
to be consecrated as a new family chapel. He gave a single, ruthless order:
every single belonging from the matriarch's chambers was to be removed and
burned. The rooms were emptied, the walls scrubbed clean, and the doors sealed
shut with heavy timber.
Every trace of her existence, every memory of her venom, was purged from
the manor in a cleansing fire, leaving only the promise of new life to fill the
void she left behind.