Elara's demeanour shifted in a heartbeat. The softness in her eyes iced
over, replaced by a cool, assessing glint that made Sarah Vance's rehearsed
smile falter. Sarah's expression soured, her features tightening into a mask of
poorly concealed irritation.
She had severely underestimated this woman from Ashbourne. She looked
like a delicate porcelain doll, but it seemed she had teeth— razor-sharp ones.
"Miss Hayes is being overly sensitive," Sarah said, her voice
laced with a feigned, wounded sweetness. "I only offered a well-meaning
warning. If you choose to disregard it, that's your prerogative. But must you
be so aggressive and accuse me of meddling?"
She laid a hand lightly on her chest, her face a perfect portrait of
martyred grace.
Elara didn't flinch. She simply held the other woman's gaze, letting the
silence stretch into something heavy and uncomfortable. Just as Sarah began to
squirm under the weight of that unnerving calm, Ingrid's crisp voice cut
through the tension from behind them.
"What's going on here? It looks like a standoff at high noon."
Elara's posture changed instantly. She lowered her gaze, her lashes
fluttering as she subtly dabbed the corner of her eye—a masterful performance
of a woman on the verge of upset tears. But as she turned back to Sarah, a
fleeting, icy smirk played on her lips, gone so fast it was a ghost.
As Ingrid and a flustered Mrs. Vance approached, Sarah quickly pasted on
a smile. "Auntie Ingrid, Mummy," she began, her tone oozing false
concern. "I merely thought the gown Mrs. Thorne had chosen wasn't quite
right for her complexion, so I suggested another... but she…"
She let her sentence trail off, hesitating artfully, a picture of
genuine distress.
Mrs. Vance, seeing her daughter's aggrieved expression, immediately
swelled with maternal indignation. But with Ingrid Winslow's sharp eyes upon
her, she bit her tongue, waiting for the matriarch to speak first.
"What seems to be the matter with Elara?" Ingrid's gaze swept
over Elara's slightly tense, downcast face before locking onto Sarah with an
intensity that made the younger woman's blood run cold.
Sarah felt a jolt of panic but pressed on, her tone dripping with
saccharine sincerity. "Aunt Ingrid, I truly meant well. I was only
concerned that if Mrs. Thorne wore an unsuitable dress to the banquet with you,
she might face ridicule. But she misunderstood my intentions entirely. She said
I was meddling and even that I... was unworthy of the name Vance." She
finished with a look of pure, wounded vexation.
A heavy, two-second silence blanketed the boutique. Mrs. Vance's round
face was a picture of pity for her daughter. She shot a sidelong glance at
Elara, who stood quietly beside Ingrid, her eyes curiously fixed on a point
just past Mrs. Vance's shoulder.
"Mrs. Winslow," Mrs. Vance interjected, her tone syrupy,
"you know our Sarah. She's well-mannered and well-read. She would never be
so inconsiderate." She and Ingrid went way back. How long had this
so-called 'niece-in-law' even been around? If she were truly important, surely
there would have been some announcement by now. There'd been no wedding
ceremony, no fanfare. Nothing.
The moment the thought solidified, Ingrid's head snapped towards her.
Her voice, when it came, was deceptively soft, yet each word was a shard of
ice. "Let me be perfectly clear, Dorothy. Are you suggesting that my
niece-in-law, a woman I personally chose to welcome into this family, is a
liar? That she is the one being ill-mannered here?"
The air in the room froze solid.
No one had anticipated that Ingrid would retort so bluntly and with such
formidable force.
A taut string of anxiety within Elara's heart finally relaxed, and she
gazed at Ingrid with sheer, unadulterated admiration. Auntie Ingrid Winslow is
a force of nature.
The Vance women looked as if they'd been physically struck. Their faces
flushed crimson before paling to a sickly grey.
"No, that's not— I would never— I only meant—" Mrs. Vance
scrambled, her words tangling into a useless, flustered jumble.
"Enough." Ingrid didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
The single word, laced with a lifetime of unchallenged authority, shut down all
argument. She waved a dismissive hand. "I understand the situation
perfectly well. I have built a life, a family, and an empire on a simple
principle: I do not tolerate outsiders meddling in my affairs. And I certainly
do not tolerate them insulting my family to my face."
The dismissal was absolute. The implication couldn't have been clearer
if it were written in neon.
Sarah's face was ashen. Mrs. Vance looked utterly mortified. Their long
acquaintance meant nothing in the face of Ingrid's loyalty.
"Ingrid," Elara's soft voice, now warm and clear, broke the
tension like a sunbeam. She seamlessly redirected Ingrid's attention, her
dimples deepening as her almond-shaped eyes curved into cheerful crescents.
"It's this red one. Don't you think it's perfect?"
The sales assistant, sensing the seismic shift in power, nearly tripped
in her eagerness to bring the gown forward.
Ingrid's expression transformed. The icy matriarch vanished, replaced by
a doting relative, her face melting into warm, genuine approval. "Perfect
is the word. Red is power. Red is passion. On that flawless skin of yours,
you'll look less like a guest and more like the hostess. We'll take it. No need
to try it on; I can already see it."
"Right away, madam!"
Just as Ingrid reached for her own card, Elara gently stopped her.
"Ingrid, please, let me. Silas gave me his card. He said I should buy
whatever I wanted and that he'd be upset if I didn't spend his money." Her
tone was light, playful, and carried the unmistakable ring of genuine intimacy.
She pulled the understatedly luxurious black card from her handbag and
handed it to the awed assistant, who accepted it with reverent care.
Ingrid paused, then a slow, meaningful smile spread across her face.
Well played, my dear.
Watching the easy, affectionate, and utterly united front between Ingrid
and Elara, the Vance women's humiliation was complete. Defeated, they muttered
stiff farewells and beat a hasty, undignified retreat.
Once they were gone, Elara turned to Ingrid. The playful glint was gone,
replaced by a vulnerability that made her look her age. Her eyes, clear and
bright like spring water, shimmered with unshed tears of gratitude.
"Ingrid... I... thank you. I didn't expect you to... I mean, with
Mrs. Vance being an old friend..."
Ingrid reached out and cupped Elara's chin, her touch surprisingly
gentle. "Look at me, child. 'Thank you' is for strangers. You are not a
stranger. You are family. And in this family, we have a simple rule: we protect
our own. Especially from vipers in designer dresses." She pursed her lips
in obvious disdain. "Their 'friendship' was a convenience. You are a
daughter. There is no contest."
Elara's heart swelled. The message was clear, absolute, and
unconditional.
"Now, listen to me, Elara Thorne," Ingrid said, her voice
dropping into a low, serious register that commanded absolute attention.
"You carry my name now. You are a Winslow by marriage and a Thorne by
heart. When you walk into a room, you own it. Do not ever shrink yourself to
make small-minded people comfortable. If someone throws a dagger, you don't
duck—you catch it and throw it back twice as hard. Pin them to the wall with
their own malice."
She leaned closer, her eyes glinting with the wisdom of a woman who had
built her own throne. "This family is your armour. That impossibly
stubborn husband of yours is your sword. So stand tall. And tell me, what in
the world could you possibly have to fear?"
Elara listened, her breath caught in her chest. At the final question, a
slow, confident smile spread across her lips, erasing any last trace of doubt.
The smile was pure Silas. "Nothing," she said, her voice firm and
sure. "Absolutely nothing at all."
The evening of the charity banquet shimmered with a decadent opulence.
Aboard the Winslow family's luxury cruise ship, the air was thick with the
scent of salt, rare perfume, and old money.
As the Winslow party ascended to the third deck, they commanded the
room. And at the centre of it was Elara, a vision in crimson. The red satin was
a declaration. It hugged every curve, the neckline a graceful reveal of
delicate collarbones, the subtle cinch at her waist an accentuation of her
stunning silhouette. The Australian opals at her throat and ears shimmered with
a fire that mirrored the one now burning in her eyes.
Walking hand-in-hand with Annabelle, she didn't just enter; she made an
entrance, radiating a confidence that was impossible to ignore.
The whispers began instantly, bolder in the absence of Silas.
"...that's his son, Julian, from Ashbourne. The girl must be
his..."
"Obviously. No way that child is Silas's wife. Can you
imagine?"
"Tsk. A shame, really. All that money, those looks... and he can't
even give her an heir."
"Who needs an heir? I'd settle for that black card and the keys to
the penthouse..."
"Dream on. That son of his will get every penny..."
In a shadowy corner, a tall, slender figure in a stark white suit leaned
against the railing. He idly swirled a glass of blood-red wine, his sharp, dark
eyes—seemingly alight with amusement—fixed intently on the Winslow group, and
specifically on Elara's glowing, exquisite face.
So young. So tender. A fresh, unripe peach, plucked and polished to
perfection.
Who would have thought the great Silas Thorne had such a... specific
taste?
A slow, cynical smile curved his full lips.
Heh. If that foolish woman were alive to see this, would the fury alone
be enough to kill her a second time?