The air in the Thorne mansion was always thick with unspoken
rules and silent power plays. For years, Julian had moved through his life
surrounded by the invisible shield of bodyguards his father, Silas, had
arranged. They were his shadows, his silent guardians, and his unwitting
jailers. Their reports never needed to reach Silas's desk—until now.
Everything changed after Silas returned to Ashbourne. More
specifically, it changed after he decided to investigate the woman Julian had
rashly declared he intended to marry.
The bodyguard's report was clinical, devoid of judgment, yet
it painted a devastating picture: Julian had been found in the bed of a woman
named Vivian. And the child in her womb was still very much present.
Now, kneeling on the cold, hard floor of his father's study,
Julian could feel the weight of that report pressing down on him. Silas sat in
a high-backed leather chair, a king on a dark throne, his expression an
impenetrable mask. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic tap of his finger on
the armrest. Each tap echoed like a countdown to judgment.
Julian's kneecaps screamed in protest, a sharp, needle-like
pain shooting up his thighs. He didn't dare move a muscle. Gritting his teeth,
he pressed his palms flat against the polished wood, lowered his head, and
knocked his forehead against the floor in a heavy, resounding kowtow.
"Father," his voice was a raw scrape, thick with shame and a
forced humility. "I know I have failed you. I was confused… blinded by my own
arrogance. I give you my word—no more misguided thoughts, no more overstepping
my bounds, no more ambition that isn't earned. I will be diligent. I will
accept your guidance. I will not make you or the family worry for me again.
Father, I beg for your forgiveness."
His voice hitched, feigning a sob that was part performance,
part genuine despair. The display tugged at Old Lady Thorne's heartstrings.
Seated to the side, her stern face softened with great-grandmotherly concern.
"Silas," she interjected, her tone brooking no argument.
"The child admits his fault. Don't be too harsh. He's young; mistakes are a
part of youth. What matters is that he is willing to change. There will be time
to teach him."
Her sharp eyes then shifted to the Winslow couple, Arthur
and Ingrid, who observed the scene with polite detachment. "Since you are all
returning to Oakhaven soon, take him with you. Let him learn by your side."
Ingrid's eyelids lifted slowly, her gaze landing on Julian's
prostrate form. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her. He had never
been a grandson to her, never allowed her to get close. But duty was duty.
"Of course, Old Lady Thorne," Ingrid replied, her voice cool
and composed. "Arthur and I will see to it."
A satisfied gleam flickered in the old matriarch's eyes. But
when she saw that Silas still showed no intention of letting Julian rise, her
expression tightened once more. She knew better than to push further.
The silence stretched, taut and unbearable. Elara, standing
quietly near the doorway, watched the scene unfold with a mix of curiosity and
unease. She wondered how the formidable Silas Thorne would handle this public
display of contrition from a son who had, just hours ago, been his rival.
Finally, Silas moved. He unfolded his long legs and rose to
his full height, his presence dominating the room. His voice, when it came, was
deceptively soft, yet it carried the weight of finality.
"Get up." He paused, letting the two words hang in the air.
"How far you can go in the future is up to you."
It was a statement laden with meaning—a conditional pardon.
Julian's ability to bend had been noted, but the length of his submission
remained to be seen.
"Thank you, Father." Julian's voice was muffled against the
floor. "I will strive to be worthy of your expectations."
The dark blue fabric of Silas's impeccably tailored trousers
brushed past Julian's downcast eyes. He didn't dare look up until he heard his
father's footsteps retreat toward Elara.
"Quickly, help Young Master Julian up!" Old Lady Thorne
urgently beckoned a servant, her relief palpable.
The atmosphere at the Thorne breakfast table the next
morning was markedly different from the previous night's drama. The addition of
Old Lady Thorne ensured a stifling silence. No one spoke; the only sounds were
the soft clinks of cutlery against fine china.
Yet, amidst the quiet, a subtle current of tension ran
through the room. It stemmed from Silas, who was meticulously attentive to
Elara. He handed her a spoon, served her a bowl of steaming soup—small gestures
that screamed of possession and care. Old Lady Thorne's eyes flickered between
them, her thoughts hidden behind a veneer of polite observation.
Elara pretended not to notice, focusing on her food, though
her appetite was waning.
The tension escalated when Julian entered, having changed
into a fresh suit, his appearance carefully restored. He greeted everyone in
turn, his voice clear though slightly hoarse. Then he paused, his gaze landing
on Elara. A beat of silence passed before he spoke again.
"Mother."
The title dropped into the quiet room like a stone in a
still pond. Forks stilled. Every eye, except for Silas's and Elara's, widened
in surprise. Memories of Julian's frantic, desperate declarations from the
night before were still fresh. This swift, seemingly effortless acceptance was…
unsettling.
Old Lady Thorne's sharp eyes darted from Julian's composed
face to Elara's startled one. Internally, she was calculating the damage
control. Thank goodness this scandal is contained within these walls, she
thought. If this gets out, as long as Julian denies it, no one would dare
challenge the Thornes openly.
Elara, a mouthful of millet soup still on her tongue, froze.
The word, so familiar yet so alien when directed at her, sent a bizarre chill
down her spine. She forced the soup down her throat, mumbled a non-committal
acknowledgment without meeting his eyes, and quickly looked back at her bowl.
Julian's eyes lowered, masking a bitterness that threatened
to consume him.
Silas, however, seemed pleased with this timely
demonstration of submission. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward
the empty seat opposite. "Sit. Eat."
The meal concluded with a palpable sense of relief. Elara,
her stomach churning, managed to eat little. The moment the Winslows left with
Annabelle and Julian for Oakhaven, she hurried to the ground-floor washroom,
barely making it before vomiting.
Silas was right behind her, closing the door just as the
sound of her retching echoed into the hall.
Two maids, passing by in the corridor, froze at the sound.
They exchanged a wide-eyed look and scurried away. Once out of earshot, the
younger one, unable to contain her gossipy nature, whispered, "Mr. Thorne's
newly married young wife… she wouldn't be pregnant, would she?"
The older maid clapped a hand over her mouth, her face pale
with fear. "Are you trying to get us killed? Use your brain! Can that be said
out loud? Especially about this?"
The younger maid's eyes widened in dawning horror. The
reason for last night's confrontation between father and son was an open secret
among the staff. If a pregnancy were true… whose child would it even be?
Speculating without proof was a death sentence. They vowed never to speak of it
again.
Later, as Silas prepared to leave the old mansion with
Elara, he delivered his instructions to his grandmother. "We will return on
January 15th. Keep the ceremony simple. We will leave early."
Elara saw the flash of displeasure on the old woman's face,
but she merely nodded in acquiescence.
In the privacy of the Rolls Royce, Elara turned to him.
"We're returning on the 15th?"
"Hm," he affirmed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of
hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her skin lightly. "It's the annual
gathering. All branches of the Thorne family return to the old mansion to pay
respects to our ancestors and… liaise with one another. As the head of the
family, I must preside. And you, as my wife, will be by my side."
"What will I need to do?" Elara asked, a flutter of
nervousness in her chest. A gathering of the entire Thorne clan sounded like a
battlefield of social politics.
"You need do nothing but follow me," he said, his tone
gentle but leaving no room for argument. He wouldn't have her stressed over
these people.
Reassured, Elara changed the subject, remembering a text
from her best friend. "My friend Chloe is back in town. Can you drop me at my
old apartment? I'd like to see her."
"Of course," Silas agreed without hesitation. "Call me when
you're done. I'll pick you up."
Elara started to protest, not wanting to inconvenience him,
but stopped herself. He is my husband, she reminded herself. Let him
be a husband. The lessons from Julian and Vivian had taught her that
excessive consideration was a weakness.
"Okay," she said, smiling sweetly. "As long as you don't
mind the trouble."
"Trouble?" Silas's eyebrows lifted slightly, a faint smile
touching his lips as he looked at her delicate features. "Picking you up is
never trouble, Elara. It's a pleasure."
Elara blinked, surprised by the straightforward affection in
his words.
Seeing her expression, Silas's smile deepened. He cupped her
face, his thumb stroking her cheek. "Elly, never think you are a burden to me.
You are my wife, my partner for life. Your affairs are my highest priority. I
enjoy taking care of you. I enjoy coming to get you. Do you understand?"
Her heart swelled with a complex mix of emotions. She
remembered her own father saying similar words to her mother—that she was never
a burden, but his motivation. "I understand," she whispered, nodding heavily.
The black Rolls Royce Cullinan pulled up in front of her
old, modest apartment building. Silas walked her upstairs to her door, ensuring
she was safe before leaving.
Then, the luxurious car merged back into the city's traffic.
The game was far from over, and his next move required a personal visit to St.
Joseph's Hospital to secure his legacy and silence the last loose end.