A hot, sharp emotion—something suspiciously like jealousy—flared in
Elara's chest before she could stop it. By the time she recognised it, she had
already dug her nails into the back of Silas's hand, venting a sliver of her
pent-up frustration.
Liar. He never speaks a single word of truth.
Silas winced at the sharp sting, a wry smile touching his lips as he
glanced down at the woman beside him.
She looked the picture of serene elegance, listening intently to Ingrid
and the other socialites. A faint, polite dimple showed at the corner of her
mouth, but her slightly curved, almond-shaped eyes were cold, betraying not a
trace of amusement. He could almost hear the sound of her teeth grinding.
The curve of his lips widened. He left his hand perfectly still in her
lap, a silent offering for her to take her anger out on. His gaze, however,
slid to Ingrid with a hint of fond exasperation.
His aunt truly knew how to stir up trouble for him.
The conversation across the room wrapped up quickly. The two society
matrons, sensing the thick, intimate tension between the newlyweds, rose to
make their graceful exit.
But the woman with the cascade of dark, wavy curls wasn't finished. She
stood, her gaze locking directly onto Silas, who sat with an arm draped
casually around his wife's chair.
"Mr. Thorne," she began, her voice a confident, honeyed tone.
"I feel I must confess the reason for my visit today. My mother and your
aunt arranged a meeting for us—a blind date, scheduled for before the New Year.
It seems I was just a step too late. You've already chosen a wife."
She let the statement hang in the air, her smile never wavering. Elara
froze, the polite mask on her face slipping for a fraction of a second.
A blind date?
The words echoed in her mind, and her gaze instinctively cut to Silas.
So this stunning, confident woman had been meant for him. She was the one who
had arrived too late, the plan that had been thwarted by their sudden, secret
marriage. A strange, hollow feeling settled in her stomach. She wasn't
jealous—she couldn't be. This was a business arrangement. But the realisation
that she was the unexpected obstacle in a pre-ordained plan made her feel like
an imposter in her own skin.
"What a pity our paths didn't cross sooner," the woman
continued, her eyes glinting with ambition rather than regret. Elara noted how
her gaze never left Silas, as if she, Elara, were merely part of the furniture.
"But since a partnership of one kind is off the table, perhaps we could
discuss another? I have a proposal for an AI large model project I believe you
would find… incredibly interesting."
She was good, Elara had to give her that. Confident, polished, and
undeterred.
Which made Silas's response all the more brutal.
"Apologies, Ms. Vance," he said, his voice cool and detached,
offering no softening charm for her benefit. "But I am not interested. For
project collaborations, you may liaise with our business department. Should
they deem the proposal favourable, it will be escalated to me."
A faint blush crept up Sarah's neck, but she mastered it in an instant.
"Mr. Thorne truly lives up to your reputation—impartial and professional
in all things. I shall be in touch. I do hope our next meeting takes place in
your office."
With a final, gracious nod to Winslow, she linked arms with her mother
and swept out, leaving a vacuum of silence in the lavish living room.
Elara finally pulled her hand from Silas's grip, her skin tingling from
the contact. With an audience, she'd play the part of the dutiful wife. Now,
she wanted space.
Ingrid shot her nephew a look that was both a smile and a glare. Still
haven't managed to placate her?
Silas raised a brow in response. You caused this.
Ingrid chuckled and turned her attention to Elara. "Elara, my dear,
pay no mind to that little performance. It was entirely this wretch's fault for
hiding you away. The arrangement with Sarah was made months ago, and it simply
slipped my mind until her mother showed up on my doorstep today."
Elara's heart softened. She hadn't truly been angry at Ingrid, but the
explanation was a balm. The last thing she wanted was for Silas to think she'd
been… jealous.
"Please, Ingrid, it's perfectly alright," Elara said, her
smile graceful and warm. "It's only natural you'd be concerned for him.
Miss Vance seems very accomplished. But it seems fate had other, more… dramatic
plans for Silas and me."
A twist of fate that had turned his son's ex-girlfriend into his wife.
"Indeed, it was fate," Ingrid agreed, her eyes sparkling as
she glanced between them. "And I must say, our aunt and niece-in-law bond
is rather splendid as well."
Elara smiled bashfully, genuinely fond of the dashing, commanding woman
who embodied everything she aspired to be.
"The weather is lovely. After lunch, rest for a bit, and I will
take you out. I want to show you my Oakhaven," Ingrid declared.
"That sounds wonderful," Elara agreed a little too quickly.
Anything was better than being stuck indoors with Silas, the two of them
circling each other like wary, caged tigers.
Silas watched the two most important women in his life plan an afternoon
that explicitly excluded him, and could only sigh in resigned amusement.
Lunch was a grand affair, the entire Winslow family—three
generations—gathered around the large table. Ingrid's gaze swept over them, a
satisfied smile on her lips. It was a picture of completion.
If only that rascal nephew of hers could stay healthy and provide a few
more heirs to carry on the Thorne and Winslow names, her happiness would be
absolute. Then she could truly face her late sister with peace.
Alas…
Julian, seated at the lower end of the table, maintained his gentle
smile throughout the meal, listening quietly. Only when Elara spoke did his
gaze linger a moment too long, a detail he himself seemed unaware of.
When Annabelle heard of the afternoon plans, she insisted on joining,
transforming the quiet stroll into a full-family expedition.
At three o'clock, a gleaming black minivan, flanked by two sleek
Maybachs, headed toward Harbour City, Oakhaven's most bustling district.
Elara had assumed "taking a stroll" meant walking through a
park or scenic vista. She was mistaken.
They remained in the comfortable minivan as Ingrid, with the flair of a
tour guide, pointed out property after property.
"That skyscraper? Ours. That entire street of boutiques? Winslow
private holdings. That mall, and the development next to it? Also mine."
These weren't corporate assets of Winslow Group; they were Ingrid's
personal empire, a staggering portfolio of private wealth.
And between the lines, Ingrid made it clear that a significant portion
of it would one day be transferred to Elara.
The weight of the gesture pressed down on Elara, making her breath
catch. This was more than generosity; it was a tether. It was a claim.
She was still wrestling with the decision to leave Silas. The dangers
swirling around him were unpredictable, and she was carrying two precious,
secret lives within her. Her parents had been taken by a sudden, tragic
accident—a catastrophe she alone had survived. She would not roll the dice with
her children's safety.
After the tour of private estates, the motorcade continued to the
monolithic Winslow Group headquarters and the sprawling port logistics
facilities. Ingrid meticulously detailed the empire Silas had built from the
ground up: global logistics, real estate, finance, high-tech, new energy,
entertainment.
A man on the Forbes Billionaires list.
And Elara understood the true purpose of this tour. It was Ingrid's way
of reassuring her, of showing her that Silas Thorne was, at his core, a
legitimate businessman.
They dined out as night fell over the glittering city before returning
to the mountain-top Winslow estate.
The residence was a small village of villas. Ingrid, Arthur, and
Annabelle occupied one; Silas had an entire villa to himself. Julian, when he
visited, stayed with Ingrid.
No sooner had Elara and Silas stepped through the door of their villa
than Ben, the baby-faced man from the airport, appeared.
"Boss," he said, his usual cheerful demeanour replaced with
seriousness. He flicked a hesitant glance at Elara.
"Speak," Silas commanded, casually rolling up his sleeves.
Ben's voice was low. "A message from the Cosa Nostra family. They
say it's been too long. They're… requesting your presence for a chat."
Cosa Nostra.
The name landed in the quiet room like a gunshot. Elara's head snapped
up, her blood running cold. Her wide eyes flew to Silas's face—So much for the
legitimate businessman.
Silas met her accusatory gaze, reading the "I knew it!"
written plainly in her eyes. He shook his head, a flicker of helpless
frustration crossing his features.
"Go get Julian," he ordered Ben, his voice grim. "Tell
him to be ready in ten."
As Ben vanished, Elara turned without a word and walked upstairs, her
heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The gilded cage of the
Winslow empire suddenly felt a lot more dangerous.