The sleek black Cullinan pulled away from the curb, leaving
the law firm behind. Inside, the air was thick with a tension that had nothing
to do with business deals.
Elara kept her face turned toward the window, her cheeks
burning. Her lips felt tender, swollen from a kiss that had been anything but
brief—a searing, possessive claim that had stolen her breath and left her heart
hammering against her ribs.
Behind the wheel, Silas drove with one hand, the picture of
relaxed control. A faint, supremely satisfied smirk played on his lips. He ran
his tongue over his lower lip, as if savouring the memory of her taste, and the
usual icy composure in his eyes had melted into something darker, more
devilish.
Elara chanced a glance at him, and her breath hitched. The
raw, masculine satisfaction on his face was both terrifying and thrilling.
She finally found her voice, a soft, flustered murmur.
"You make it sound like you're doing me a favour, but there's always a
price with you, isn't there? I should have known there's no such thing as a
free lunch."
She'd thought a little strategic flattery was all it would
take to secure his help. She hadn't expected him to cage her against the car
door, his husky voice whispering "baby" against her mouth before
demanding she call him "darling" until the word lost all meaning.
Silas's sharp ears caught her muttering. A low chuckle
rumbled in his chest as he glanced her way, his eyes glinting. "Who says
there's no free lunch? To celebrate my wife's brilliant proposal, I'm taking
you out. Consider it my treat."
"You... you know about that already?" Elara
blinked, her embarrassment momentarily forgotten. She hadn't had a chance to
tell him.
"Mhm," he hummed, the sound vibrating with
approval. "The proposal is exceptional. Going big was inevitable. With the
right promotion and execution, the results will be staggering."
A genuine smile touched her lips, pride cutting through her
fluster. "Thank you for the affirmation, Mr. Thorne. I'll strive to
continue exceeding expectations."
They ended up at an exclusive Italian restaurant, all soft
lighting and intimate booths. Elara, battling a wave of morning sickness,
gravitated toward the lighter dishes. Silas, his tastes refined by years in
Oakhaven, preferred subtle flavours over overpowering ones. For once, their
preferences aligned perfectly—though Elara silently mourned the spicy, bold
food she craved pre-pregnancy.
After the meal, as she sipped lemon water, Silas leaned
back, his demeanour shifting into something more serious.
"We're returning to Oakhaven in a couple of days."
Elara paused, her glass halfway to her lips. "Am I
coming with you?"
"Yes." He reached out, his thumb gently brushing a
stray droplet of water from her bottom lip. The simple touch sent a jolt
through her. "We're postponing the public wedding and announcement, but
it's time you met my inner circle. Consider it your official introduction to my
world—the world you'll be ruling by my side."
Elara's composure wavered. His world. The words held both a
promise and a threat. She masked her nervousness with a teasing lilt.
"Give me a moment to mentally prepare. Should I be expecting any...
surprises? A secret wife stashed away, perhaps? Or a jealous mistress or
two?"
She'd seen enough dramatic Italian soap operas with her
mother to know the tropes of powerful families—the hidden heirs, the bitter
rivals, the vicious fights for power and affection.
A soft, exasperated sigh escaped him. "What ridiculous
drama are you conjuring up?" His lips quirked into a faint smile. "If
I had a mistress, why would I have gone through the trouble of legally marrying
you?"
"Who knows how the mind of a billionaire tycoon
works?" she retorted, her eyes sparkling with feigned innocence.
"Maybe you needed a principal wife to make the mistresses seem more
respectable?"
Silas stared at her for a beat before a laugh, both amused
and incredulous, escaped him. He pinched her cheek gently. "Rest assured,
your husband is impeccably, and some would say boringly, faithful. Not even a
female fly gets past my security. I had no idea I'd married such a jealous
little thing."
Elara lowered her lashes, hiding her true thoughts. The
teasing was just a shield. She was probing, testing the waters of the unknown
world she was about to be thrown into, desperate for any clue that would
prevent her from being blindsided.
Oakhaven - 10:21 PM
The city was a beast of light and sound, its pulse beating
strongest in the neon-drenched heart of its nightlife.
In a dim, hazy bar where the bass throbbed deep enough to
feel in your bones, Julian Thorne sat hunched over the polished counter. He
swirled a glass of amber whiskey, watching the ice cubes clink against the
sides with a hollow, monotonous rhythm.
He was drowning in a fog of his own failure and humiliation,
the sneering faces of the Winslow elders replaying in his mind. He was nothing
here. A nobody.
A cloying, heavy scent of perfume invaded his space before a
body, all soft curves and deliberate pressure, leaned into his side.
"Hey, handsome. Looking a little lonely. How about you
buy me a drink?" a woman's voice, syrupy and slow, purred in his ear.
A wave of pure, unadulterated rage flashed through him.
"Get the hell away from me," he snarled, shoving her off with a sharp
jerk of his arm.
The woman stumbled back, her eyes wide with shock and
indignation. "You're insane!" she spat, straightening her dress
before storming off on unsteady heels.
The scene drew a few bored glances from the surrounding
patrons, but they quickly returned to their own revelry. Everyone was lost in
their own euphoric bubbles. Everyone but him. He was the sole monument to
misery in a temple of forgetfulness.
He gave a bitter, self-mocking laugh and drained his glass, signalling
the bartender for another.
"Handsome chap, buy me a drink?"
This time, the voice was different. Lower. Male. And devoid
of the previous attempt at seduction.
Julian didn't even bother to look up. "Piss off,"
he slurred, the alcohol starting to blur his edges. "I'm not into
that."
A low, amused chuckle answered him. "Heh. Feisty. I
like that."
The man slid onto the stool beside him without invitation.
"Then allow me to buy you a drink. Consider it making a friend. I have a
soft spot for young men with... spirit. Two whiskies. The good stuff," he
commanded the bartender.
The authority in his tone made Julian finally turn his head.
And then he froze.
The man beside him was pale, almost gaunt, with strikingly
sharp, handsome features that seemed carved from marble. His narrow,
almond-shaped eyes crinkled at the corners as he offered a crooked, knowing
smile. He looked utterly delighted.
"Don't worry," the man said, his voice a smooth,
cultured drawl that contrasted with the bar's chaos. "My tastes don't run
in that direction either. I simply saw you sitting here, looking like you lost
your last friend, and thought you could use one."
He pushed one of the freshly poured glasses toward Julian,
clinked his own against it, and took a deep swallow. "Ah. I've sampled
spirits from every corner of the globe, but nothing ever tastes quite like the
whiskey from home."
Julian's eyes traveled over the man's impeccable attire—a
crisp white shirt and tailored trousers, the epitome of 'La Classica' style. He
was utterly, bizarrely out of place in this den of smoke and sin. Every
instinct screamed that this man was dangerous, an eccentric anomaly.
But what did it matter? Julian was a ghost here. He had
nothing left to lose. He downed the offered whiskey in one burning gulp and
slammed the glass down. "Another."
"A man who drinks like he has something to forget. I
understand." The man's eyes twinkled. "From your accent, you're not
from Oakhaven. Let me guess... Ashbourne?"
Julian stiffened, the alcohol haze clearing for a second.
"How could you possibly know that?" He'd worked for years to erase
any trace of his origins.
The man simply smirked, a secretive, unnerving gesture.
"Let's call it a professional ear. I spent some time in Ashbourne in my
youth. The accent is faint, almost gone, but not to me. I'm a rather...
perceptive individual."
He held Julian's wary gaze for a moment before shrugging
elegantly. "Relax. I have no stake in your troubles. I'm merely a passing
stranger offering a sympathetic ear."
The wariness slowly bled from Julian's posture. The man was
right—he was a ghost in this city. His own father had written him off, and the
illustrious Winslow family saw him as nothing more than a disposable pawn in a
game he never asked to play. No one knew him, and truly, no one cared.
He slumped forward, a fresh wave of bitter despair washing
over him.
Suddenly, an icy-cold fingertip pressed against his cheek,
forcing his face to turn. The touch was shockingly cold, like the touch of a
corpse, sending an involuntary shiver wracking down his spine.
He found himself staring directly into the man's pale,
intense face. Those captivating eyes were no longer amused; they were sharp,
calculating, and filled with a dark, magnetic allure.
The man's lips curved into a devilish smile.
"You look utterly broken," he stated, his voice
dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that cut through the pounding music.
"It doesn't suit a handsome young man like you. Tell me... did someone do
this to you?"
His thumb stroked Julian's cheek once, a chilling, almost
paternal gesture.
"Feeling down? Shall I help you get revenge?"
Within his constricted pupils, the man's pale face wore a devilishly
charming smile.
"..."
Revenge?
Julian's heart skipped a beat.