Elara's hand tightened on his sleeve. "It won't be dangerous, will
it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Every word he spoke
about this trip seemed veiled, hinting at a world of shadows and intrigue.
The memory of yesterday—the cold, brutal efficiency in the tunnel, the
way Steven Cohen had looked at Silas—flashed in her mind, vivid and chilling.
It forced her to imagine the worst.
Silas met the worry shining in her bright eyes and gently ruffled her
soft hair, his touch meant to soothe.
"Nothing I can't handle. I'm just going to clarify a few matters.
I'll be back before you know it. Don't worry about me, alright?"
His smile was calm, his composure absolute, giving away nothing.
Elara searched his face for a long moment, looking for any crack in the
facade, before finally nodding. "Okay."
But her quiet obedience made him uneasy. He pulled her into his arms,
his large hand cradling the back of her head, holding her close. "Ben will
be with you every step of the way. If the morning sickness gets bad—and I mean
really bad—you tell him to call the family doctor immediately. No
arguments."
Elara pressed her cheek against the solid warmth of his chest before
looking up, a new worry creasing her brow. "But you said we
couldn't…"
Wouldn't a doctor immediately know? Wouldn't the secret be out?
"Ben is my man. He's discreet. He'll know how to handle it,"
Silas assured her, his voice firm. "Your health is the only thing that
matters. Even if it gets out, we'll deal with it. I'd rather that than you
suffering alone."
She hadn't anticipated the pregnancy would announce itself so violently.
Isolating herself wasn't an option; vomiting multiple times a day wouldn't
escape Ingrid's sharp notice for long. Yesterday's excuse of travel sickness
was flimsy at best.
"I understand," she murmured.
Her clear eyes reflected his sharp, handsome features, the concern in
his dark gaze meant only for her. She took a breath. "You have to take
care of yourself, too. Make sure you… keep people you trust close."
The words felt foreign on her tongue, a tentative step into his reality.
After last night, there was no going back. Whatever his world entailed—the
danger, the secrets, the power—she was in it. And she would learn to navigate
it for him.
Silas's eyes darkened with intensity. He pulled her close again, his
hand a warm weight on the small of her back. "Wait for me to come
back," he murmured against her ear, his voice a low promise.
"I will."
A strange, sweet melancholy settled in her chest as he held her.
Silas departed at noon.
That afternoon, lulled into a drowsy nap, Elara was gently roused by the
arrival of Ingrid and a slightly bored-looking Annabelle. They were going
shopping; a major charity auction gala was in two days, and Elara was expected
to attend.
Annabelle, declaring shopping a "special kind of torture,"
begged off to go practise shooting at the estate's range instead.
So, with Ben driving and acting as silent bodyguard, the trio headed to
the most exclusive shopping centre in Oakhaven.
Elara quickly discovered that Ingrid shared her nephew's particular
passion for dressing her up. Their tastes were eerily aligned.
Every gown they selected was ethereal and flowing. Slipping into a
white, puff-sleeved French-style dress, Elara looked like a fairy-tale princess
stepped out of a storybook.
"Well, don't you just look like a dream descended from the
heavens," Ingrid declared loudly, not caring about the attentive sales
staff. "Absolutely radiant!"
The sales assistants, seizing the opportunity, eagerly brought forth a
parade of similar dresses. Ingrid barely glanced at them before waving a
dismissive hand. "We'll take them all. Wrap them up."
Elara's protest died on her lips. In a few months, none of these would
fit. But Ingrid was beaming, and the cuts were forgivingly loose. She decided
to let it go.
After the bags were settled and hefted by a stoic Ben, Ingrid led her to
another boutique, this one even more opulent. No sooner had they entered than
Ingrid's phone buzzed. With a quick word, she moved to a quiet corner to take
the call, leaving Elara to browse.
Ben took up a watchful position nearby as three sales assistants
descended, chirping about new arrivals.
Elara smiled politely, her eyes glazing over until they landed on the
dress.
It was a stunning, vivid crimson. The colour was a bold, passionate
slash against the neutral palette of the store. The cut was deceptively
simple—elegant, romantic, but with an undercurrent of sheer, undeniable power.
Back in Ashbourne, her gowns for events with Claire and Bianca had
always been safe. Muted. Conservative. This red was a rebellion. It called to
the part of her that was stepping into a new, unpredictable life.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice clear. "I'd like to try
this one."
"Excellent choice, Mrs. Thorne!" the head assistant gushed,
carefully lifting the gown. "This is a limited edition haute couture
piece. The only one in all of Oakhaven. This crimson will look breathtaking
against your skin tone, and the size is absolutely perfect for you."
Elara's fingers traced the luxurious fabric, falling more in love with
it by the second. As she was being guided toward the fitting room, a smooth,
cultured voice sliced through the air.
"What a delightful coincidence, Miss Hayes. Shopping for the
gala?"
Elara turned. It was Mrs. Vance and her daughter, Sarah—Silas's former
matchmaking prospect from the day before.
"Miss Vance," Elara replied, her tone neutral.
Sarah glided forward, a practiced smile on her lips, while her mother
went to greet Ingrid. Sarah's expertly made-up eyes zeroed in on the red dress.
"Oh, this style..." Sarah began, her head tilting in faux
contemplation. "I'm not entirely sure it suits your... temperament, Miss
Hayes."
She gave Elara a once-over, her smile dripping with condescending
advice. "You have such a youthful, delicate beauty. Like a sweet little
bindweed vine. This colour is so bold, so forceful. I fear it would completely
overwhelm you."
She paused, letting the insult hang in the air like cheap perfume.
"You are attending with Auntie Ingrid, aren't you? Wearing an
ill-fitting gown would reflect poorly on the Winslow family. Perhaps you should
consider..." Her eyes scanned the room before landing on a garish orange
puff-sleeved dress. "...that one. It seems more your speed."
Today, Sarah was a vision of calculated allure in a tight red mini-dress
and black stilettos, her hair a cascade of voluminous waves. It was a stark
contrast to the demure, intellectual facade she'd presented yesterday.
Elara followed her gaze to the orange dress, then back to Sarah's smug
face. A slow, cold smile touched her lips.
"Since Miss Vance finds it so suitable, perhaps you should try it
on yourself. That particular shade of orange would do wonders for your
complexion."
Beneath her expertly applied foundation, Sarah's face paled, then
flushed with anger. The orange-yellow hue was notoriously unflattering, washing
out her fair complexion and amplifying her warm undertones in the most
unappealing way.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Sarah's voice lost its sugary
sweetness, turning sharp. "I was offering friendly advice. If you can't
accept it gracefully, there's no need for sarcasm."
Elara widened her eyes, the picture of innocence. "Sarcasm? I was
merely stating an observation. Ask them if you don't believe me." She
gestured lightly to the cluster of silent, uncomfortable sales assistants.
Their downcast eyes and awkward silence were a louder agreement than any
words.
Sarah's composure cracked. Her jaw tightened. "Elara, you
mustn't—"
"And Miss Vance," Elara cut in, her own voice dropping, losing
all pretence of warmth. It became cool, precise, and sharp as a blade.
"Whether a dress suits me or not is not your decision to make. As long as
I like it, it is perfect for me."
She took a small step forward, her gaze locking onto Sarah's. "But
more importantly, what gives you, an outsider, the right to comment on what is
or isn't suitable for me? Is this the refined courtesy your family is so known
for?"
The unspoken words hung in the air between them: You are nothing to him.
You are nothing to this family. I am his wife.
The message was delivered, clear and cutting. Sarah Vance had severely
underestimated her. Elara was no pushover.