Elara's heart lurched. The fragile joy of building the snowman evaporated like breath in the freezing air, shattered by Silas Thorne's razor-edged question. Cold bit through her thin jumper, sharp as betrayal. She met his gaze, her own hardening into obsidian pools. "Mr. Thorne," she bit out, the title a deliberate weapon, each syllable honed sharp, "I haven't considered marrying you. End of story."
A low rumble of laughter vibrated in Silas's chest—amused, exasperated, maybe both. He saw the barb in her formality, but the rejection beneath it was stone-cold serious. Losing my touch? The thought flickered, dark and unwelcome. Can't handle one stubborn girl? "Reasons?" he asked, the word deceptively smooth, yet layered with a command that pressed against her skin like the cold itself.
Beneath the wide black umbrella, he stood immovable. The sleeve of his jumper strained over corded forearm muscles; veins mapped a path of raw power down to his strong, capable hand gripping the handle. Snowflakes caught in his dark hair, framing a face etched with intensity as his gaze pinned her.
Elara's shivers turned violent, the last dregs of adrenaline abandoning her to the bone-splintering cold. Silas's gaze cut sideways, snagging on the discarded pink puff of her jacket draped over the snowman's icy shoulders. Then, without a word, his arm became a steel band around her, yanking her flush against the unyielding heat of his side. His body was a furnace against her frozen frame. "Inside. Now." The command was a low growl, brooking no argument, no delay.
The sudden, shocking heat radiating from him made her muscles lock. How wasn't he freezing? Trapped against his unyielding frame, her cheek scraped the hard plane of his chest with every step. His scent enveloped her—crisp bergamot tea, a whisper of expensive cigar, and something deeper, uniquely, dangerously masculine. Under the swirling snow, the imposing figure shielded the woman bundled against him. Their footprints merged into a single trail across the pristine white canvas—a scene ripped straight from a high-stakes drama, breathtaking and charged with unspoken tension.
Watching from the manor entrance, Ethan let out a low whistle, arms crossed over his chest. "See that, Martha? Told you the Boss was more than just some patient old bull." A wicked grin spread across his face. "That right there? Pure predator. Big bad wolf playing shepherd, guiding the little lamb right back to his den." He winked. "Gonna savour every bite, mark my words. Not a crumb left."
Martha swatted his arm, though a smile tugged at her lips. "Hush your nonsense, Ethan! Don't let Mr. Thorne catch you."
"Truth stings, doesn't it?" Ethan retorted, puffing out his chest. But as Silas's imposing figure drew nearer, his bravado crumbled. He coughed, snapped upright, and practically skittered sideways. "Uh... think I left the gym lights blazing! Gotta dash!"
Martha shook her head, a fond exasperation in her eyes, and turned towards the kitchen, leaving the grand foyer in sudden, watchful silence.
The living room's warmth seeped into Elara's bones like a healing balm. She sank deeper into the plush sofa, the heat slowly thawing the icy numbness from her limbs. Martha appeared like a comforting ghost, pressing a steaming mug of spiced ginger tea into her hands. "Drink this, petal," she urged softly, her kind eyes warm. "Chase the chill right out." Elara clutched the mug, the sweet, pungent steam a lifeline she desperately inhaled.
Silas reappeared moments later, a study in controlled power even in dark trousers and a soft grey sweater. The casual attire did nothing to soften the sharp angles of his face or the intensity in his eyes. In his hand lay a folded shawl – exquisite light gold cashmere woven with subtle, intricate patterns that whispered of luxury. He draped it casually over the sofa back beside her.
"Put this on," his voice was a low rumble, calm yet leaving no room for debate. "Your duvet needs airing."
Elara's gaze flickered over the luxurious fabric. It looked obscenely expensive. "Thank you," she said, her voice carefully polite, ice forming beneath the words, "but I'm perfectly warm now. I wouldn't want to risk getting it dirty."
"Then it gets washed." His reply was immediate, final. Before she could voice another protest, he lifted the shawl and settled its soft weight firmly around her shoulders. The cashmere was instantly warm, and worse, it carried the faint, expensive trace of his cologne – cedar-wood and something uniquely male. Annoyance flared hot and sharp. His utter disregard for my 'no' is infuriating. Ripping it off felt petty, childish. Instead, she pulled the edges tighter, a flimsy barrier against his overwhelming presence.
Fuelled by that frustration, the words burst out: "I won't consider your proposal." She met his gaze head-on, defiance hardening her voice. "Julian's betrayal cut deep, Mr. Thorne. But shackling myself to another Thorne out of spite? That's just trading one gilded cage for another." She drew a shaky breath, the ghost of the betrayal's sting sharp in her throat. "Hate is exhausting. I'd rather save my energy. I'm young. Love…" Her voice caught, betraying a sliver of vulnerability she instantly hated, "...love isn't the only thing that defines a life."
She lifted her chin higher, the picture of proud defiance. "Marriage is sacred. Using it as a weapon against a man who proved himself utterly unworthy?" She shook her head, her eyes blazing. "It degrades me. He doesn't deserve that kind of power over my future." Her life, bought with her parents' ultimate sacrifice, was too precious to gamble on vengeance with a devil she barely knew. One reckless step could unravel everything.
In that moment, bathed in the warm light, her eyes shone with fierce intelligence, her neck a proud, pale arch. She was untouchable, a regal swan facing down a hunter.
Silas leaned back, his expression an unreadable mask. One hand rested lightly on his knee, long fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the fine wool of his trousers. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was unnerving, matching the intensity of his stare that seemed to peel back her layers, making her pulse hammer against her ribs. She forced her spine straighter, refusing to yield.
Abruptly, the tapping ceased. His voice, when it came, was a low blade slicing the silence. "How do you know," he murmured, leaning forward just enough to feel like an invasion, "that marrying me wouldn't make you happy?" A dangerous spark ignited in his dark eyes. "You seemed… surprisingly at ease building that snowman. Didn't you feel it? That… simplicity?" He paused, letting the implication coil in the air between them. "Or was that just another calculated move?"
Elara flinched as if struck. He'd taken that fleeting, genuine moment of unexpected peace and twisted it into something cheap, manipulative. Blood drained from her face, then rushed back in a hot wave of anger. "You're deliberately missing the point!" she snapped, sidestepping his verbal trap. "Beyond everything I just said, I want distance from the Thornes. From Julian. From you. All of it." She drew a steadying breath, seizing the lifeline he'd offered. "You promised compensation. Said you'd grant me anything. Well, this is it. Let me go. Permanently."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Elara could hear the frantic drumming of her own heart, loud in her ears. Silas's gaze sharpened to a laser focus, dissecting her expression, searching for any flicker of doubt, any crack in her resolve. The pressure radiating from him felt almost physical, a weight pressing down on her chest.
Then, the faintest nod. Almost imperceptible. "Fine." The single word was icy, absolute. "As you wish." The unspoken warning vibrated in the charged air: Don't give me another opening, little wildcat. My patience isn't infinite.
Relief crashed over Elara, so sharp and sudden it was almost dizzying. The crushing weight that had settled on her shoulders the moment he'd proposed lifted. Free. She was finally free.
For the next two days, Elara haunted the grand villa like a silent spectre. She drifted downstairs only for meals, retreating immediately afterward to the sanctuary of her room, the heavy door clicking shut like a barrier against the world. Silas Thorne remained an unseen force, his presence a constant hum beneath the mansion's opulent surface: the low drone of video conferences bleeding through the study door, the sharp, clipped cadence of international calls in multiple languages, the relentless thud-thud-thud of heavy weights or fists meeting a bag from the gym late into the night, sometimes punctuated by Ethan's muffled grunts or shouts. Over quiet dinners, Martha's gentle updates painted the picture: a business empire churning as relentlessly as the blizzard still raging outside the frost-rimmed windows. The storm within mirrored the storm without.
The historic snowfall had transformed Ashbourne into a frozen tomb, blanketed under a thick, muffling layer of white. Inside the villa, Elara wrapped herself in the isolation, a fragile, crystalline peace settling over her wounded spirit. It was a temporary ceasefire, a breath stolen before the next battle.
On the fourth morning, a weak, watery sun finally clawed its way through the clouds, glinting off the crusted snow like shattered diamonds. Elara watched the slow drip from an icicle outside her window when the sudden, jarring buzz of her phone shattered the fragile silence. It vibrated violently against the polished wood of the bedside table. Uncle Rob. A chill, deeper than any winter wind, prickled down her spine.
She swiped to answer, forcing calm into her voice. "Uncle Rob?"
"Elly! Sweetheart, where the hell are you?" Robert Hayes's voice was strained, tight with worry and something else – urgency, maybe fear. "Julian's been tearing the city apart! Says you vanished off the face of the earth days ago. He's here, Elly. Right now. In the drawing room, demanding answers like he owns the place." His breath hitched. "You need to come home. Right away."
A glacial wave, colder than the deepest snowdrift, slammed through Elara. Julian. At Hayes House. After everything. The sheer, fucking audacity. Sarcasm, sharp and bitter, twisted her lips. "Send him away, Uncle Rob," she said, her voice dangerously level. "I'll handle Julian on my own terms."
A heavy pause crackled down the line. Robert's voice dropped, thick with dawning horror. "Elly… baby girl… tell me straight." The words were gravel. "Did that boy… did Julian hurt you?"
Elara closed her eyes. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, speaking volumes.
Robert Hayes sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of the world. "Oh, Elly... I see." He sounded suddenly older. "Look, darling, I know you're hurting. God knows you are. But hiding? It won't make this go away. You have to face him." His voice turned urgent, pleading. "He's the Thorne heir, Elly. If we don't handle this… if it blows up… it won't just wreck you. It could bury the Hayes family. All of us." He took a shaky breath. "He won't leave until he sees you. Where are you? Tell me. I'll send Charles with the car immediately."
Elara stared out the window. The weak sunlight glinted off the melting snow, revealing patches of muddy brown earth beneath – the pristine white illusion crumbling, just like her fragile peace. Julian was forcing her hand. The reprieve was over. "No car, Uncle Rob," she said, her voice finding a new, steely resolve. "Tell him to wait. I'm coming home."