The grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed nine, its deep tones
echoing through the quiet, opulent manor. Upstairs, in the room adjacent to
Annabelle's, a very different scene was unfolding.
"Well, Elly? What do you think? If there's anything at all you
need, just say the word. I'll have it arranged immediately," Ingrid
Winslow said, her voice warm as she squeezed Elara's hands.
Elara let her gaze drift around the space, a soft gasp catching in her
throat. It was a symphony in pink. From the plush, rose-quilted bedding to the
sheer blush curtains and the delicate floral patterns on the upholstery, every
detail was curated to perfection. Under the soft, shimmering light of a crystal
chandelier, the room felt like it had been plucked straight from a storybook
castle.
A genuine, girlish delight bubbled up inside her, a feeling she hadn't
experienced in years. A dimple appeared in her cheek as she smiled. "It's
absolutely beautiful, Ingrid. I don't think there's a woman alive who wouldn't
adore this room."
For a fleeting moment, she was a child again, back in the cozy little
house where her parents had lovingly decorated her own room in shades of
cotton-candy pink. After moving to her uncle Robert's cold, imposing mansion,
her bedroom had been transformed into a study of sterile whites and creams—a colour
scheme that had mirrored the hollow chill in her heart.
"It is pretty, isn't it?" Ingrid beamed, her almond-shaped
eyes—so strikingly like her nephew's—lighting up with the pleasure of finding a
kindred spirit. "I poured my heart into decorating this for Annabelle. And
what did that girl do? She complained it was 'too pink' and dismissed all my
effort." She let out a theatrical sigh. "I redecorated her current
room to her stark, minimalist taste, of course. This one has just been sitting
here, waiting. I'd pop in sometimes, feeling a little sorry for it."
Her tone then shifted, becoming conspiratorially bright. "But now,
it's finally found its purpose. You'll stay here, my dear. Don't you worry
about a thing. Let that wretched nephew of mine sleep alone in his own cold
room."
The smile on her face faltered, replaced by a weary sigh. "He's
grown so stubborn, Elara. So high and mighty. Neither Arthur nor I can get
through to him anymore. We've learned to stay out of his business dealings, but
when it comes to important family matters..." She trailed off, her
expression darkening. "We're always the last to know. This injury in
Italy—if my contact hadn't tipped me off, he would have been fully recovered
before he ever thought to tell his own aunt."
She paused, her gaze intensifying as it fixed on Elara. "And
then... there's the matter of Julian. Are you aware of it?"
Elara stilled for a second before understanding dawned. He must have
told her about Julian not being his biological son.
She gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yes. Silas told me."
Ingrid let out a sharp, unimpressed huff. "Well, at least he has
the basic sense to be honest with his own wife."
Elara offered a small, non-committal smile. The image of Silas that
Ingrid painted—a rebellious, secretive young man—felt strangely novel. To her,
the man she knew was always the picture of control, a mature gentleman who held
all the cards.
Seeing the young woman's fresh, lovely face, Ingrid couldn't help but
add, a hint of wry amusement in her voice, "It seems a wife truly is
dearer than an aunt and uncle."
"Oh, Ingrid, please don't think that!" Elara's eyes widened in
mild panic, and she rushed to explain, her words tumbling out. "He only
told me because he'd made me angry! He promised not to keep secrets from me
anymore. It was a peace offering. Otherwise, he'd still be up on his high
horse, hiding things and being all... all high and mighty."
The last two words were laced with a tangible, wifely grievance.
Ingrid's initial comment had been offhand, with no real jealousy behind
it. But seeing Elara's flustered defence—which inadvertently revealed just how
much Silas was willing to concede to keep her happy—made her smile grow
genuinely warmer. "See? You feel it too, don't you? That arrogant,
domineering, macho attitude of his?"
Was Silas a chauvinist? Not in the way the word was typically meant. He
was protective, sometimes infuriatingly so, but he also respected her mind.
Yet, in that moment, a spark of solidarity flashed in Elara's eyes.
Aligning with her aunt-in-law felt like the strategic—and deeply
satisfying—move. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a confidential
murmur.
"Well... he can be terribly overbearing sometimes," she
confessed, warming to her theme. "It's the old-fashioned male chauvinism,
I'm sure of it. The endless nagging! 'Elara, you must eat this. Elara, you must
drink that.' He presents me with these elaborate meals full of things I don't
even like. But then he gives me that look and says it's 'for the babies in your
belly,' and what can I possibly say to that? I'm completely powerless!"
The floodgates were open. Ingrid, delighted, launched into a story about
a teenage Silas refusing help with a school project out of sheer stubborn
pride. Elara countered with a tale of him reorganising her entire bookshelf
because he didn't like her 'chaotic' system. Their laughter and shared
complaints filled the pink-hued room, building a swift and powerful alliance
founded on a common subject of exasperation: Silas Thorne.
Outside the door, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the
doorframe, the subject of their conversation listened to every word.
A soft, irritated snort escaped him.
"Why haven't you retrieved your wife and taken her to bed
yet?" he grumbled to the man standing patiently beside him.
Arthur Winslow adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, a faint smile playing
on his lips. "And how, precisely, are we to do that when you are still
loitering here, creating a disturbance?"
"Take her to your own room," Silas retorted, his voice a low
rumble. "Have you forgotten Ingrid's decree? For the next month, I am to
sleep apart from my wife. For the children's sake." He repeated the words
with palpable sarcasm. "These children were hard-won, and we must be 'ever
so careful,' apparently. You are obstructing my bonding time."
Arthur couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him. "Bonding time?
Is that what we're calling it now? One night without your... prenatal
education... won't stunt their development, son. Do it earlier tomorrow. Don't
choose such a late hour and disturb the pregnant woman's rest."
He was joking, of course. His primary mission, handed down directly from
his wife, was to remove the looming, disgruntled presence of his nephew from
the hallway. If Ingrid came out and found Silas still there, it was his
sleeping arrangements that would be in jeopardy.
Silas, thoroughly exasperated by the united front of his aunt and uncle,
shook off Arthur's placating hand. "I'll leave on my own."
He strode down the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing in the quiet
hall. Pushing through the heavy front door, he emerged into the cool night air.
He came to a stop on the driveway, planting his hands on his hips as his chest
rose and fell with a few deep, steadying breaths. Above him, a tapestry of
stars was scattered across the velvety night sky. His face, half-illuminated by
the dim glow of the manor's perimeter lights, was an unreadable mask of
frustration and thought.
With a decisive movement, he pulled his phone from his pocket and hit a
speed-dial number. It was answered on the first ring.
"BOSS?"
"Where is Julian being housed?" Silas's voice was all business
now, sharp and clear.
On the other end, Ethan's eyebrow quirked upward. He provided an address
in a clean, efficient tone.
"Bring the car around," Silas commanded, his gaze hardening as
he stared into the middle distance. "I'm going to pay him a visit."
Without another word, he ended the call and strode purposefully into the
darkness, heading towards the private car park.