The man's laughter was a low, grating sound that seemed to slither
through the air, raising the fine hairs on the back of Elara's neck. It was
pure malice, disguised as amusement.
She ignored the hand he extended, a gesture that felt more like a threat
than a greeting. Her icy gaze remained locked on Steven Cohen, a silent
challenge.
His laughter died down, replaced by a smirk that didn't reach his cold,
calculating eyes. He tucked his rejected hand into the pocket of his tailored
suit pants, tilting his head as he studied her.
"You don't believe me?" he asked, his voice a teasing purr.
"Oh, I believe you," Elara replied, her voice unnervingly
calm, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside her. "Why wouldn't I?
You sought me out just to deliver this little message. You're not the type to
waste your time on lies for no reason. You're far too... purposeful for
that."
Steven's smirk vanished. He watched her in silence for a long, unnerving
moment before a new, intrigued light flickered in his eyes. A soft chuckle
escaped his lips.
"Now this is interesting. You are rather interesting, Miss Hayes."
He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial
whisper. "I must confess my curiosity—how does a vibrant young beauty like
you end up with a relic like Silas Thorne? The man is old enough to be your
father."
Elara's jaw tightened. The cup of lukewarm water in her hand felt heavy,
a weapon waiting to be launched at his smug face.
"Or perhaps you haven't heard the whispers?" he continued, his
tone dripping with false sympathy. "They say Silas is... impotent. Barren.
What a tragedy. He's withering on the vine and can't even give you an heir.
What will you do when he's gone, little dove? All that effort, all that...
devotion... for nothing. You'll be left with empty hands."
Elara had planned to let his vile words wash over her until he grew
bored, but his insinuation—that she was a gold-digger wasting her youth—struck
a nerve. A dangerous smile curved her crimson lips.
"Who says I need a child of my own?" she countered, her voice
sweet yet laced with venom. "An older husband only means a more devoted
one, consumed by guilt and desperate to please his young wife. I'll have him
sign over every last share, every property, every penny into my name long
before he draws his last breath. I will be his sole heir, utterly secure. So
you see, I'm not losing out at all."
She leaned in slightly, her eyes glittering. "In fact, it sounds
like a rather perfect arrangement. And he's the lucky one, to have a sweet
little wife like me to dote on him in his final years."
Steven Cohen was, for the first time in recent memory, utterly
speechless.
Then, a low rumble built in his chest, erupting into full, genuine
laughter. It was a sound more terrifying than his previous malice.
Seeing his exaggerated mirth, Elara spotted a couple approaching and
used the distraction to slip away, her heart hammering against her ribs as she
retreated from the predator on the deck.
Wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye, Steven's gaze
followed her retreating figure—a slash of brilliant red against the dark ocean,
a flame in the shadows. The kind of vivid, life-filled colour that those who
dwell in darkness crave to possess... or extinguish.
His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip in a gesture of dark
anticipation.
"What business do you have with Elara?"
Julian Thorne emerged from the shadows, his expression stormy, his
posture rigid. He'd been watching the entire exchange, his protectiveness
warring with a deep, unsettled suspicion.
Steven's smile didn't falter as he turned. He leaned back against the
railing, the picture of casual indifference. "Just making conversation. Is
that a crime?"
He'd seen the way Julian looked at Silas's young wife earlier—a look
that spoke of more than mere familial concern. The potential for chaos was
delicious.
"Who are you?" Julian demanded, his voice icy. The bar, the
provocations, the mention of his father's surveillance—it all screamed danger.
Steven's lips curved. "I gave you my name. Did you not ask your
dear father about me?"
Julian's mouth set in a hard line. He hadn't. A gut feeling had warned
him against it, a suspicion that this man was his father's enemy, and that
association with him was a line he couldn't uncross.
Steven gave a low, knowing hum. "No matter. My judgement was
correct." He pushed off the railing and clapped a hand on Julian's
shoulder. The touch felt like a brand. "With the blood of the Cohens in
your veins, you were never meant to be a fool."
"The Cohens?" Julian's heart stuttered. Steven Cohen.
"What are you talking about?"
One eyebrow arched in mock surprise. "Did Silas never bother to
tell you? Your mother's name was Cohen."
The words landed like a physical blow. Julian knew nothing of his mother
beyond her death soon after his birth. It was a subject met with cold silence,
a pain he was never allowed to touch. The paternity test Silas had thrown at
him years ago had only confirmed biology, not history.
"Hmph," Steven snorted, reading the conflict on his face.
"Silas must think our entire line is erased. And besides me... I suppose
it is."
Julian's head snapped up, his eyes dark with a torrent of emotions.
"What was your relation to my mother?"
"Me?" Steven's smile was a twisted, painful thing. "I was
her most beloved... little brother." The title seemed to ash in his mouth.
He looked at Julian, his head tilted. The pale, almost luminous skin
made his age impossible to guess. "So, shouldn't you call me
'Uncle'?"
The air grew thick and cold. Julian ignored the question, the words he'd
ached to ask his whole life finally breaking free. "Tell me how my mother
died."
The change in Steven was instantaneous. All traces of amusement
vanished, replaced by a void-like emptiness. The air around them seemed to
still, the festive sounds from the party fading into nothing. His face became a
pale, expressionless mask, his eyes bottomless pools of darkness. A primal
chill shot down Julian's spine.
After a silence that felt like an eternity, Steven spoke, his voice flat
and dead.
"Go ask Silas Thorne. He knows better than anyone how that woman
died."
Without another word, he turned and melted back into the shadows of the
deck, leaving Julian alone.
Julian stood frozen, the cold sea breeze doing nothing to cool the fire
of rage and confusion burning within him. His hands clenched at his sides,
knuckles bleaching white, veins corded and prominent against his skin.
When Elara found her way back to Ingrid, the main auction was in full
swing. She forced a smile, pushing the unsettling encounter to the back of her
mind.
Ingrid, with a wave of her hand, instructed Elara to bid on a serene oil
painting, securing it for a respectable sum that was neither too flashy nor too
meek. Even Annabelle, caught up in the excitement, acquired a few sparkling
trinkets.
But Elara's mind was elsewhere, still hearing the echo of sinister
laughter on the wind.
Miles away, a blood-red sports car screamed down the coastal road,
tearing a rift through the silent night.
When his phone rang, the driver didn't slow down. He answered with one
hand, his grip steady on the wheel.
"Mr. Cohen," a voice rasped in Italian through the speakers.
"With him isolated on that boat, it's a golden opportunity. We should take
it."
Steven's reply was calm, absolute, and left no room for negotiation.
"His life is mine to take. Your only job is to ensure he doesn't die.
Understood?"
A dissatisfied grunt was the only response before the line went dead.
Steven tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. A cruel, anticipatory
smile finally touched his lips as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
The engine roared like a beast unleashed, propelling him faster into the
darkness.