The oppressive silence in Lady Thorne's ornate sitting room thickened as
her words hung in the air. She watched her grandson, Silas Thorne, with wary
eyes. His brow furrowed like storm clouds gathering over a desolate moor, a
familiar sight that always made her swallow her next words. This grandson,
carved from the same ruthless stone as his late mother, was a force she
respected but never loved. His recent years of cultivated restraint hadn't
erased the legacy of his mother's brutal family – a legacy Old Lady Thorne
despised.
She forced her voice into a semblance of conciliation. " Silas. You
know your own… condition. Julian is your only son, the sole heir to the Thorne
legacy. He cannot afford… mishaps." Her knuckles whitened on the armrest
of her chair. "He's been sheltered, I grant you. Harden him, by all means.
But not with those methods." She spat the words, her distaste for the
'gangster ways' of his maternal kin palpable. "Julian is Thorne blood,
raised under my hand. I won't see him thrown to wolves."
She drew herself up, the matriarch reasserting control. "I've done
what I can. Now it falls to you. Bring him into the fold. He will take the
Thorne reins someday." Her gaze sharpened, piercing through the gloom.
"I don't meddle in your Winslow affairs, Silas. But the Thornes? That
remains my domain. The future of this family – the next century – hinges on
Julian. Do not mistake me."
Silas remained motionless, a statue carved from ice and shadow. The only
movement was the slow tap of a single finger against the polished mahogany
desk. Finally, a low rumble escaped him. "I will consider it."
A flicker of relief crossed the old woman's face, swiftly buried.
Seizing the fragile opening, she leaned forward, her voice softening into a
parody of warmth, though her eyes remained shrewd as cut glass. "Silas…
while we speak of Julian… perhaps you should take a keener interest. He seems…
rather preoccupied of late. With a girl." She let the revelation settle
like dust. "Elara Hayes, I believe."
A thoughtful mask briefly replaced her usual severity. "I
encountered her. At the Wentworth affair. Her lineage…" A delicate pause,
a faint, disdainful wrinkle of the nose. "...is decidedly modest. But she
comported herself adequately. Pleasant. Quite pretty, in an unassuming sort of
way." A dismissive wave relegated the girl's charms to insignificance.
"The pertinent point is Julian seems genuinely… captivated."
She let the implication coil in the air before striking her point, her
tone turning silky with persuasion. "Don't you see the potential? Settling
him down? Marriage, Silas. It instills responsibility. Anchors that… restless
spirit." She leaned back, her gaze locked onto his impassive face, willing
him to agree. "A wife. A future of his own. Precisely the stability
required to focus his energies." She gave a decisive, self-congratulatory
nod. "Yes. An early marriage. It could resolve… several issues quite neatly."
A single, sharp, utterly humourless sound – a scoff or a snarl cut short
– shattered the carefully constructed atmosphere. Silas rose, unfolding his
imposing height like a dark wave cresting, instantly dwarfing the room and her
arguments. His expression remained unreadable, yet the chill emanating from him
was palpable. "Ask him, Grandmother," he stated, his voice
dangerously quiet. "Ask if the girl harbours the slightest desire to
become a Thorne broodmare."
He turned towards the heavy oak door, his parting words dropping like
tombstones into the sudden void. "Since you insist I take the reins… Very
well. After Christmas, he is mine." His hand closed on the cold brass
knob. He paused, half-turned back, his eyes glacial shards pinning her to her
seat. "And disabuse yourself of one notion. My heir… need not be my
son."
The door clicked shut with devastating
finality. Old Lady Thorne sat frozen, the colour leaching from her face as if
drained by his words. Her lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line. Besides
Julian, who? The silent scream echoed in the suddenly deafening silence, the
crushing weight of his threat smothering her carefully laid plans for her
beloved great-grandson.
Five days until New Year's Eve found Elara Hayes waving goodbye to
Chloe's departing plane at the bustling airport terminal. A faint pang of
loneliness touched her as her friend vanished towards the gate for Oakhaven.
Turning, she steeled herself for the inevitable return to the Hayes mansion – a
place that felt less like home and more like a gilded cage.
Her Uber was barely navigating the airport traffic when her phone
shattered the relative calm. Robert Hayes's name flashed on the screen, his
voice tight with forced urgency. "Elara? Get to St. Jude's. Now. Your
grandfather… it doesn't look good. He's asking for you." The line went
dead before she could form a question.
Dread coiled in her stomach. Asking for her? Impossible. She directed
the driver to the hospital, the cityscape blurring past the window. The
sterile, antiseptic smell of St. Jude's hit her as she rushed through the
automatic doors, her heels clicking sharply on the linoleum. She found them in
the private wing: Robert, Claire, and Bianca clustered outside a room, their
expressions a mix of strained solemnity and poorly concealed anticipation.
Beside them stood Mr. Johnson, the family lawyer, face impassive, flanked by an
associate holding a sleek briefcase. The air crackled with unspoken tension.
Inside the dimly lit room, the figure on the hospital bed was barely
recognisable as the formidable patriarch. Master Hayes was a skeletal husk
swallowed by white sheets, his skin a sickly, waxy yellow. Machines beeped a
monotonous, morbid rhythm. His eyes, clouded and unfocused, fluttered open. A
thin, rasping whisper escaped his cracked lips, echoing strangely loud in the
heavy silence.
"Conrad…"
The name hung in the air, charged with decades of bitterness and regret.
Elara froze just inside the doorway. Conrad. Her father. Banished over a decade
ago for daring to marry her mother, Evelyn – a transgression the old man never
forgave. His name had been erased, a curse never spoken within the hallowed,
hate-filled halls of the Hayes estate. And now, on the precipice of death, it
was the only name on his lips.
Elara met the sight without a flicker of warmth. 'Grandfather' was a
title, not a relationship. This man had despised her mother for 'stealing' his
golden heir, reducing Conrad Hayes to an ordinary man consumed by love. That
hatred had flowed unchecked to Elara, the living reminder of his son's
defiance. If not for her uncle Robert's intervention years ago—a gesture
quietly fuelled by his devotion to her mother's memory—she'd likely be scraping
by in some forgotten corner of the city, not standing in this hushed room of
death and greed.
The end came swiftly. The rasping breaths grew fainter, the beeping
slowed, then flatlined into a single, endless tone. The doctor's quiet
pronouncement – "Time of death, 2:17 PM" – was met not with grief,
but with a palpable shift in the room's energy. Eyes, dry and sharp,
immediately swivelled towards the lawyers.
Bianca couldn't contain herself a second longer. "Mr.
Johnson," she burst out, stepping forward, her voice tight with barely
leashed avarice, "Grandfather's will? We should proceed, shouldn't we?
Given the… circumstances?" Her gaze darted towards the still form on the
bed and then back, hungry and impatient.
Robert shot her a silencing glare, but his own posture radiated tense
expectation. Claire merely smoothed her already impeccable skirt, her
expression carefully neutral.
Mr. Johnson remained unflappable. He adjusted his black-framed glasses,
opened his briefcase, and extracted a thick document. His voice, cool and
precise, cut through the heavy air. "As per the last will and testament of
Reginald Hayes, executed and notarised on December tenth of this year..."
He began reading the legalese, listing properties, trusts, and minor bequests.
Bianca's face grew darker with each passing item Claire received a modest trust
fund and a portfolio of commercial properties. Robert, as expected, inherited
the bulk of the Hayes Corporation shares and the primary estate.
Then Johnson's tone shifted, fractionally. "...Furthermore, the
Roswell properties – both villas – along with twenty percent of the voting
shares in Hayes Corporation currently held by the deceased, are bequeathed
solely to Miss Elara Hayes."
A stunned silence, thicker than before, slammed down. Bianca's carefully
composed mask shattered. "Twenty percent?!" she shrieked, her voice
cracking. "That can't be right! Roswell? Those villas were promised to me!
And the shares… everyone knew it was only five! Johnson, you've made a mistake!
Grandfather would never—" Her outrage choked her. Jewels and a sports car?
Compared to prime real estate and a controlling stake? It was an insult.
"Miss Hayes," Johnson interrupted, his voice hardening just
enough to command attention, "the will is valid, executed while Mr. Hayes
was of sound mind and under full legal supervision. There is no error."
Robert stepped forward smoothly, placing a restraining, almost paternal,
hand on Bianca's trembling arm. "Bianca, control yourself. Mr.
Johnson," he said, his voice a study in strained diplomacy, "we
accept my father's final wishes, of course. Thank you for your diligence."
He extended a hand, his mind clearly racing. Twenty percent. Combined with his
own inheritance, it gave him a strong position, but Elara holding a fifth of
the company? It was a complication he hadn't foreseen. His gaze slid towards
Elara, calculating and cold.
Johnson gave a curt nod, ignoring Robert's proffered handshake. "My
duty, Mr. Hayes." His attention then shifted fully to Elara, who had
remained silent and still near the door, her face an unreadable mask.
"Miss Elara Hayes," he stated formally, "there is a specific
condition attached to your inheritance."
Elara's eyes, dark and guarded, finally lifted to meet his. The brief,
unexpected spark of hope – that perhaps, against all odds, some shred of
recognition for her father existed – died instantly. Of course. No Hayes gift
came without poisoned barbs. "Condition?" Her voice was flat, devoid
of inflection.
Robert, Claire, and Bianca leaned in, their earlier shock replaced by
sharp, predatory interest.
"Per Mr. Hayes's explicit instruction," Johnson continued, his
tone devoid of judgment, "you may only inherit the designated properties
and shares upon your legal marriage. Furthermore…" He paused, letting the
weight of the next words build. "...the spouse must be explicitly approved
and designated by Mr. Robert Hayes."
A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped Elara's lips. It started low, then
grew louder, echoing bitterly in the sterile, death-filled room. The absurdity
of it! The cruel, controlling joke from beyond the grave! Her grandfather's
final act wasn't reconciliation; it was the ultimate manipulation, a final
attempt to chain her to the Hayes agenda, to barter her life for the
inheritance her father had been cheated of.
The laughter died as suddenly as it began. Her chin lifted, defiance
blazing in her eyes. "No." The word was clear, sharp, final.
"Tell him," she jerked her head towards the still form on the bed,
"his blood money comes with too high a price. I renounce it. All of
it."
Bianca gasped, then a vicious smile of pure triumph spread across her
face. "Finally showing some sense," she sneered, already mentally
redecorating the Roswell villas.
Robert's reaction was more complex. Shock warred with a flash of
frustration. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, insistent murmur
meant only for her ears, yet carrying in the quiet room. "Elara, don't be
rash. Think. That inheritance… it belonged to Conrad. It's your father's
birthright, finally acknowledged. Don't throw his legacy away in a fit of
temper." His eyes held hers, intense, persuasive. "This is what he
should have had."
Mr. Johnson cleared his throat. "Miss Hayes, the renunciation
process is formal. You have a period of three months from today to reconsider
your position. If, after that time, you still wish to decline the inheritance
under the stipulated conditions, we will proceed with the legal relinquishment
then."
Elara stood rigid, Robert's words striking deep, unexpected chords. Your
father's birthright. Conrad's legacy. The image of her gentle, broken father,
who had loved fiercely and lost everything, surfaced with painful clarity. The
defiant fire in her eyes flickered, momentarily clouded by doubt. The
inheritance was tainted, controlled… but it was a piece of her father, a piece
of the life stolen from him. Could she truly walk away from that?
The sterile hospital air pressed in, thick with the scent of death,
greed, and impossible choices. The inheritance lay before her – a gilded cage
with the ghost of her father's smile locked inside. Her resolve, once ironclad,
wavered. The path forward, clear just moments before, dissolved into a
treacherous fog.