The door swung open, flooding the dim hallway with warm
light and revealing the figure leaning against the wall. Silas's relaxed
posture instantly stiffened, his face hardening into a mask of cold
displeasure.
His voice was a low, dangerous rumble as he pulled the door
shut tightly behind him. "Explain this, Julian. What do you think you're doing
skulking outside my door?"
Julian moved stiffly, pushing himself upright. His bloodshot
eyes took in the sight of his father's loosely tied robe, the picture of a man
utterly satiated. The mingling scents of cigarette smoke and alcohol clung to
him like a shroud.
He dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his heel with a
violent twist. "Just give her back to me," he whispered, the words slurred and
desperate. "Please, Dad. Just… give her back."
The air in the hallway froze.
Silas took a step forward, his voice dropping to a deadly,
controlled whisper. "Give. Her. Back." He let the words hang in the air, each
one a shard of ice. "She is not a toy to be passed between us. She is my wife.
Your stepmother. Have you lost all sense of reality, or are you just that
drunk?"
The cold, logical truth hammered into Julian's
alcohol-fogged brain.
A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat. "Your wife? She
doesn't love you! She pities you! You're sixteen years older—what can you
possibly offer her? In ten years, she'll be trapped playing nurse to a old man
while her own life passes her by! Is that her happiness? Is that what you call
love?"
Silas's expression was obscured in the dim light, unreadable
and ominous. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
When he finally spoke, his tone was deceptively soft, almost
curious. "And you presume to know what exists between us? You think you
understand her heart?"
Slowly, deliberately, he peeled open the lapel of his robe.
There, on his tanned skin over his heart, was a perfect, deep bite mark—a
passionate, possessive brand.
Julian's breath hitched, the air punched from his lungs. The
evidence of a passion he couldn't bear to imagine was staring him in the face.
Maddened, he lunged with words, a venomous, last-ditch
attack. "Then does she know?!" he blurted out, his voice cracking. "Does she
know the one thing you can never give her? Elara dreams of a family! She told
me she wanted a house full of children! What will you tell her when she asks
for that? That her husband is broken?"
He was blind to the terrifying stillness that had come over
his father, whose face was now merging with the shadows.
"Julian." The name was a whisper, yet it carried the weight
of a verdict. The temperature in the hall seemed to drop ten degrees. "You will
remember who you are speaking to. You will remember that some lines, once
crossed, can never be uncrossed. You dare wield my deepest pain as a weapon
against me?"
Julian recoiled as if struck, the blood draining from his
face. The horrifying gravity of his words crashed down on him. "I… I didn't
mean it… I'm sorry, I'm just—"
"Silence." The single word cut through his stammering like a
whip. "I see the contempt in your heart. You operate under the arrogant
delusion that your bloodline is a shield. That no matter how egregiously you
insult me, your birthright is guaranteed."
Julian's heart plummeted into an abyss.
Silas's lips curled into a scornful, disdainful smile. "Let
me be perfectly clear. I would rather burn the Thorne legacy to the ground than
hand it to a son who has so little honour. Heirship is earned through strength
and respect, not spilled from a womb. And you, Julian, have proven yourself
unworthy of both."
He took a final step back, his dismissal absolute. "Get out
of my sight. And pray you have not exhausted the last shred of mercy I am
willing to grant."
Stumbling away, Julian vanished into the shadows. Silas, who
had merely stepped out for a glass of water to cool the fire in his veins, now
found his thirst replaced by a cold, simmering fury.
Late that night, at a dimly lit bar.
Vivian received a frantic call from a former coworker and
rushed over. She found Julian slumped over the bar, utterly obliterated.
"Julian? Julian, wake up," she cooed, her voice dripping
with false concern as she stroked his hair. "Let me take you home."
As she tried to haul his arm over her shoulder, he jerked
his head up. His clouded eyes focused on her face, and a sudden, desperate hope
lit them up. His hands came up to cup her cheeks.
"Elly… you came for me. I knew you wouldn't leave me…" he
slurred.
Vivian's smile tightened, but she played along. "Of course,
Julian. I love you. I'll always be with you. Now, be good, let's get you home,
okay?"
Suddenly, he surged forward, crushing his lips to hers in a
clumsy, alcohol-soaked kiss. "You're mine, Elly," he mumbled against her mouth.
"I forbid you to be with him… Why does he get to have you? He can't even give
you a child… He's just a selfish old man, dominating you…"
Vivian froze, her eyes widening in shock. Then, a slow,
calculating gleam replaced the surprise. She kissed him back passionately,
holding him close, absorbing every devastating word.
The Next Morning
When Elara woke, Silas was already gone. A new set of
clothes was laid out for her. After washing up and changing, she headed
downstairs to find Silas and Ingrid speaking in low tones in the living room.
Old Lady Thorne presided over the scene from her armchair.
"Go and tell Young Master Julian to come down for
breakfast," the old woman instructed a maid impatiently.
"Old Madam," the maid replied nervously, "Young Master
Julian isn't in his room. The driver said he took him out last night and… he
hasn't returned."
Just as the words hung in the air, movement came from the
entrance.
Julian appeared, still wearing the same dishevelled clothes
from the night before, reeking of booze and regret. His entrance silenced the
room. All eyes turned to him—especially Elara's, standing on the staircase,
radiant and glowing.
His own dishevelled state was a stark contrast. His eyes,
full of self-loathing, dropped to the floor.
Then, he did the unthinkable.
He walked directly to where Silas sat and dropped to his
knees, his head bowed. The faint, tell-tale marks of a passionate night were
visible on his neck.
"Dad," he said, his voice thick with feigned remorse. "I'm
sorry. Yesterday, I was too impulsive. I lost my mind and disrespected you. I
promise you, it will never happen again."
Time stood still. No one moved. No one breathed.
Silas watched his kneeling son, his expression unreadable.
He recalled the brief message from his head of security that morning: 'Young
Master was seen with Miss Vivian Grays at the bar. She took him to a motel.'
A slow, knowing smirk touched Silas's lips, hidden from
everyone but Ingrid, whose sharp eyes missed nothing.
Check, and soon to be checkmate.