Steven Cohen's mind conjured the woman's face—exquisitely
beautiful, coolly noble, and forever aloof. The faint smile that had been
curving his lips vanished, his eyes icing over, their darkness deeper and more
impenetrable than the night sea below.
That face had haunted him for over two decades, its memory
as sharp and painful as the day she'd left them.
And Silas Thorne? He'd probably forgotten her entirely.
His gaze snapped back to Elara, and as if discovering a
deeply amusing secret, his wine-stained lips twisted into a cruel smirk. He
leaned one elbow casually on the railing, his devil-may-care posture drawing
admiring glances from nearby socialites who had no idea of the storm brewing
beneath his polished exterior.
Across the deck, Elara, holding Annabelle's hand, followed
in the wake of Ingrid and Arthur Winslow as they greeted the hostess, a
dignified woman named Eleanor.
Julian, his handsome features arranged into a polite,
practiced smile, stood just behind his grandfather. The picture they presented
was one of impeccable, united family strength.
"Good heavens, Ingrid! You can't just drop a bombshell
like that without warning!" Eleanor's hand flew to her chest, her eyes
wide with theatrical shock before melting into a genuinely delighted laugh.
"Silas? Married? My dear, this is magnificent news! But when? How? I
haven't heard a single whisper in the gossip columns! You've been holding out
on me! Tell me everything—when is the ceremony? I've been waiting a lifetime to
see that man finally settled and happy!"
Ingrid, a vision of timeless power in her pearl-embroidered
velvet, radiated warmth. She drew Elara closer, the gesture both possessive and
proud, a silent announcement to everyone watching.
"That boy of mine has always had a flair for the
dramatic, Eleanor. He prefers his happiness to be a reality, not a
headline." She gave Elara's hand a fond squeeze. "And we are in no
rush to subject this one to the circus of a society wedding. She's just stepped
out of university; let her breathe and enjoy being a newlywed without that
frenzy. But," she added with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, "the
moment they decide to make it official for the world, you will be at the very
top of our list. I promise you won't need to read about it in the papers."
The surrounding crowd absorbed every word, their eyes sharp
with voracious curiosity. The revelation that Silas Thorne was not only off the
market but had married a fresh university graduate sent ripples of astonishment
through them. Their stares intensified, scalpel-sharp, dissecting Elara, trying
to uncover the magic that had captivated Oakhaven's most elusive bachelor.
Elara felt the weight of their scrutiny, as if she were
under a magnifying glass. She maintained her serene smile, but the sheer
intensity was stifling.
When Arthur spotted a business associate and guided Julian
away, and Ingrid's friend pulled Annabelle off to meet another teenager, Elara
seized her chance. The crowd felt suddenly suffocating.
"Ingrid," she whispered softly, "I'm just
going to get some air."
"Of course, dear. Don't wander too far," Ingrid
replied, her eyes warm with understanding.
Lifting the hem of her crimson gown, Elara descended the
grand staircase to the second deck. It was significantly quieter. The gentle
hum of the ship's engine and the soft crash of waves against the hull replaced
the party's chatter. The night breeze, cool and carrying the crisp scent of the
sea, caressed her face, offering a moment of peace.
She accepted a cup of hot water with lemon from a passing
waiter and leaned against the railing, looking out at the dark, glittering
water. Silas had been gone for two days. Their video call last night had been
cut short by Ethan's urgent interruption. She missed the grounding sound of his
voice.
"Hello again, Miss Hayes."
The voice was cheerful, yet it slithered into her peace like
a snake. Elara startled, turning to find the man from the tunnel—the one with
the gaunt, pale face and dangerously bright eyes. Steven Cohen. Julian's uncle.
Her fingers tightened around her glass, her knuckles turning
white, but she schooled her features into a mask of polite indifference.
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," she
said, her tone cool and dismissive. She moved to leave.
In a flash, his hand shot out, his grip surprisingly strong
and unyielding around her forearm, stopping her in her tracks.
"Now, now. A little chat will fix that, Miss
Hayes." His smile was a predatory thing. "Oh, my apologies. I should
call you Mrs. Thorne."
A cold dread trickled down Elara's spine. She turned back,
her beautiful face hardening into a mask of icy resolve.
"Let go of me," she commanded, her voice low but
sharp. "Since you know who I am, you understand this is highly
inappropriate. This ship is swarming with my family. One raised voice from me
and security will escort you off this vessel. Whoever you are, release me. Now.
And I might consider forgetting this encounter."
She remembered his volatile madness in the tunnel. She
wouldn't provoke him, but she wouldn't cower either.
Steven Cohen watched her, a mix of wariness and fierce
bravery in her eyes, and his smirk widened. He seemed to enjoy her defiance.
"Tsk. So fiery. Relax, little queen. I mean you no
harm. I merely wish to have a… enlightening conversation. About your husband,
Silas Thorne. And about the woman who gave him a son."
The woman who gave him a son.
Julian's mother.
Elara's breath hitched, her composure cracking for a single,
telling second.
He saw it. His eyes lit up with sinister delight. "Ah,
so you are interested. Would you like to know who she was? What her name was?
What she was like?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Seizing on his
momentary distraction, she tried to wrench her arm free. "I said, let go!
I don't want to know!"
But his grip was like iron. He chuckled, a dry, rasping
sound. "So young, but with such a temper. It seems he has a type after
all."
"Let go of me first," Elara demanded, though her
voice had lost some of its steel. She took a calming breath, strategy
overriding panic. "Then… then I'll listen."
She prayed he didn't realise she knew exactly who he was.
Their eyes locked in a silent battle. His narrowed gaze
scanned her face, searching for deceit.
"Such a strong reaction for a stranger," he mused,
his voice a sly whisper. "You know who I am, don't you?"
Sweat dampened her palms, but she didn't blink. "I
don't. Any woman would be frightened being manhandled by a stranger at a
party."
"Hmm." His eyes crinkled, seemingly amused by her
answer. "Reasonable enough."
With a theatrical flourish, he released her arm and gave a
slight, mocking bow. When he straightened, he extended his hand, not for a
handshake, but as a presentation.
"My apologies for my discourtesy, Mrs. Thorne. Allow me
to introduce myself properly." His voice was laced with a venomous
amusement. "I am Steven Cohen. Your husband's son's… maternal uncle."
He let the title hang in the salt-tinged air, watching her.
"And my dear, departed sister," he continued, his
voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made her skin crawl, "the
woman who bore your husband his heir, her name was Elora. Elora Cohen."
The name hung between them, a ghost given sound.
Elora.
So devastatingly similar to her own. Elara felt the world
tilt slightly, the sound of the waves fading into a dull roar in her ears.
He saw the shock hit her, the blood drain from her face, and
he leaned in, savouring his victory.
"Elara... Elora," he purred, drawing out the
syllables, making them sound identical. "It has a certain ring to it,
doesn't it? My sister has been dead for over twenty years, yet it seems Silas
is still… haunted. So devoted to her memory that even the wife he chooses must
be a living echo. A beautiful, young ghost."
He paused, letting the cruel implication sink its claws
deep.
"Heh. Silas seems rather taken with my sister, doesn't
he? Even now."