The world seemed to slow down for Silas. To everyone else, the old
woman's cane was a blur of fury, but to him, it was a predictable arc moving
through molasses. He watched it come, his expression as unreadable as stone.
A gasp tore from Elara's throat, her hand flying to her mouth. But
before the polished wood could make contact with his temple, Silas's hand shot
up, catching the cane an inch from its target with a sharp, definitive smack of
skin on wood.
The air in the grand foyer went stale.
Elara exhaled a shaky breath, the terror in her eyes hardening into
something cold and grim. Almost every onlooker stood frozen, their faces a
mosaic of shock. Even though Silas had caught the blow, the sheer intent behind
it—the deliberate aim for a vital spot by his own grandmother—sent a chill
through the room, turning their blood to ice.
The old lady, Mrs. Thorne, strained against his grip, her wizened face
contorted with rage. When she realised she couldn't wrench the cane free, she
let it go with a scoff of disgust.
Silas didn't even flinch. His cold gaze locked on hers, he held the
ornate walking stick in both hands and, with a terrifyingly effortless twist,
snapped it clean in two. The crack echoed like a gunshot in the silent hall. He
tossed the broken pieces aside as if they were trash.
The old matriarch recoiled, a flicker of genuine fear in her narrow,
cloudy eyes. But fear quickly curdled back into fury, and she redirected it
like a heat-seeking missile toward Ingrid.
"Ingrid!" she shrieked, her voice scraping the air raw. "Is this the
monster you raised? Look at him! He has no heart! No soul! For the sake of
some… some stranger, he turns on his own flesh and blood! He nearly strangled
my Julian to death! What kind of beast have you nurtured under this roof? An
animal would show more loyalty!"
Her words were venomous, designed to wound and control.
Ingrid Winslow, a woman whose elegance usually radiated warmth, now
stood as a pillar of glacial fury. The temperature around her seemed to drop
several degrees.
"Mrs. Thorne," Ingrid's voice was dangerously calm, slicing through the
old woman's hysterics. "You are a guest in my home. I suggest you remember your
place. If you are here to share tea, you are welcome. If you are here to insult
and assault my nephew, then you can turn around and take your vile tongue right
back out that door. Now."
There was no room for negotiation. Ingrid would not let this woman play
the tyrannical matriarch in her house. Not for a second.
Overwhelmed by the defiance, the old lady's face went from red to a
sickly grey. She staggered, her hand fluttering to her chest.
"Great-grandmother!" Vivian rushed forward, grabbing the old woman's arm
to steady her. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Not now, you old bat, not
now! She couldn't let the old woman collapse or be thrown out before she even
laid eyes on Julian. Her entire plan hinged on getting into this house.
The old lady's spotted hand clutched Vivian's arm like a vice, her bony
fingers digging in. Her gaze swept over the hostile faces until it landed on
Arthur, Ingrid's husband, whose own expression was a complex mix of pity and
exasperation. Seeing a potential weak link, the old woman's grip on Vivian
suddenly slackened. Her eyes fluttered dramatically, her body went limp, and
she began a slow, calculated crumple toward the marble floor.
A collective gasp rippled through the foyer.
"Great-grandmother!" Vivian cried out, her face ashen. Is she for real?
Or did she actually just die of anger?
Just before the old woman's body could hit the cold, hard floor, Silas
gave a nearly imperceptible nod to the bodyguard standing sentinel nearby. The
man moved swiftly, catching the matriarch and hoisting her up before her
performance could reach its climax.
"Take her to the blue guest room," Arthur commanded, pinching the bridge
of his nose as he let out a weary sigh. He had seen this act before. "Butler,
please fetch Dr. Miller. Immediately."
Neither Ingrid nor Silas objected. They knew a charade when they saw
one, but even a charade had to be addressed.
With the fainting drama concluded for the moment, the tense procession
moved into the main drawing room of the Winslow villa. Elara, her nerves still
jangling, finally allowed herself to breathe. She looked up at Silas, his jaw
tight and his eyes stormy. Wordlessly, she slipped her arm through his, leaning
into his solid strength for comfort.
"Do you think she's really alright?" Elara whispered, her voice low.
"She is old, after all. What if the shock was too much?"
Silas looked down at her, his expression softening a fraction. "She's
tougher than she looks. She's been pulling this fainting spell for decades. A
few sharp words from Aunt Ingrid wouldn't be enough to finish her off."
"So, that was…" Elara's eyes widened in dawning understanding.
"A performance," Silas finished, his lips twisting into a scornful
smile. "Just keep watching. The second act is always more interesting."
Elara nodded, a determined glint in her eyes. "Right. I'm ready."
As they settled into the plush sofas of the drawing room, Dr. Miller,
the resident physician, hurried past them and up the stairs. Ingrid and Arthur
followed, leaving the three of them in a thick, uncomfortable silence.
Vivian, having composed herself, stood wringing her hands. The picture
of pitiful vulnerability, she approached the sofa where Silas and Elara sat.
She forced a tremulous smile, her face pale and her eyes shimmering with unshed
tears.
"Step-mum… Father," she began, her voice a fragile thread.
Silas ignored her completely, his attention on the glass of whiskey a
servant had just brought him. Elara simply stared, her gaze icy and
unimpressed.
The silence stretched, becoming unbearable.
Finally, Silas lifted his cold eyes to her. "The old woman is not well.
Shouldn't you, as her devoted great granddaughter-in-law, be upstairs attending
to her? Instead of leaving her to wander and cause trouble?"
Vivian flinched as if struck. She placed a protective hand on her
rounding belly, her head bowing as tears finally escaped, tracing paths down
her cheeks.
"I… I tried to stop her," she sobbed softly. "But she's been so
distraught over Julian. She doesn't eat, she doesn't sleep… She just had to see
him. A great-grandmother's worry for her great grandson, you understand? It's
all-consuming."
"He's not going to die," Silas stated flatly, the words devoid of all
comfort.
Vivian's breath hitched. She lifted her tear-streaked face, her wide,
pleading eyes locking onto Silas with an intensity that made Elara's skin
crawl. She took another step forward, closing the distance until she was
standing uncomfortably close, the scent of her floral perfume clashing with the
tension in the room.
"Really? You promise?" she whispered, her voice trembling. She placed
both hands on her belly now, a not-so-subtle reminder of the 'heir' she
carried. "Then, for the sake of this child… the future of the Thorne family…
please, let me see my husband. The state he was in that night haunts my dreams.
I am his wife. You can't keep us apart forever."
She took a final, invasive step, her body now only inches from Silas,
her gaze imploring and strangely intimate. "Father, I'm begging you. Just one
meeting. Let me see my husband. If I can just lay eyes on him, I'll do
anything. Anything you ask."
As Vivian posed there—helpless, vulnerable, and offering 'anything'—the smouldering
fire in Elara's chest exploded into an inferno. She recognised this act. It was
the same performance Vivian had given when Elara caught her in bed with Julian,
clinging to him and begging for another chance.
But this was a new low. This was a brazen, calculated move, a play for
power so transparent it was insulting. Did this woman think they were all
blind? That she could waltz in here and try to seduce her way to victory right
in front of her?
Elara's hands, which had been curled into fists at her sides, relaxed. A
cold, deadly calm settled over her. She rose to her feet, her voice cutting
through the room like a shard of glass.
"Vivian Grays!"
The name was a whip-crack, and every head in the room turned toward her.