Elara's voice, sharp as a shard of glass, shattered the tense silence.
"Vivian Grays!"
The name cracked through the air, making Vivian jolt. Her tear-filled
eyes, which had been locked on Silas, snapped wide open to meet Elara's icy,
penetrating glare.
"Do you have any idea what you look like right now?" Elara's lips curled
into a sneer, her words deliberate and dripping with contempt. "A clown."
She took a step forward, her presence expanding, dominating the room. "I
can see right through you. I know every sordid little thought in your head and
every pathetic move you're trying to make. Right here, in front of me—your
husband's wife—you're batting your tear-soaked eyelashes at my husband, playing
the helpless damsel. What exactly are you hoping to achieve?!"
Each word was a lash, sharp and stinging.
Vivian's heart hammered against her ribs. A flush of hot shame crept up
her neck as her fingers guiltily twisted the fabric of her skirt.
Seated beside Silas, who was a picture of relaxed power in his sharp
suit, Elara tilted her chin. Her gaze was a laser, seeming to dissect every
hidden scheme in Vivian's mind. Silas himself was a silent storm—legs crossed,
one arm resting casually on the sofa, yet his very stillness screamed of
unshakable authority. He didn't need to speak to command the room.
His silence only made Elara's voice more powerful.
"Stepmother… I… I don't know what you're talking about," Vivian
stammered, her voice a fragile whisper. Her eyelashes fluttered, releasing a
fresh wave of tears, her expression a perfect mask of wounded innocence. Yet,
her gaze flickered, just for a fraction of a second, toward Silas's stern,
handsome profile.
This man was danger incarnate. If she weren't so desperate, she would
never have dared this reckless gamble.
"Father, I just want to see Julian," she pleaded, her voice breaking.
"Stepmother has… misunderstood my intentions, I would never—"
"What misunderstanding?"
Silas finally turned his head. His gaze swept over her, cold and
dispassionate, as if he were examining a particularly unpleasant insect. That
single look was enough to freeze the blood in her veins. It was a look that
promised annihilation, a silent warning that she was playing with fire.
Suddenly, a cold dread washed over her. What was I thinking?
She had been a fool to believe she could manipulate a man like him. A
man of his stature had undoubtedly seen a thousand women like her, all trying
to use their tears as weapons. If Elara could see through her so easily, how
could he not?
Just as Elara had said, she had made a complete and utter clown of
herself.
Her face flushed a deep, mortified crimson before draining of all colour.
For the first time, she was too ashamed to even lift her head, wishing the
floor would open up and swallow her whole.
"I…" she began, her voice barely a whisper.
"You don't need to say another word," Elara cut her off, her tone
glacial. A mocking smile touched her lips. "But didn't you just say, and I
quote, 'If it means we can see each other as husband and wife, I'll do anything
you ask'?"
Hearing her own thinly-veiled proposition thrown back at her, Vivian's
face burned with humiliation.
"What's the matter? Having second thoughts now that you've been called
out?" Elara raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Vivian gritted her teeth, trapped. "…What do you want me to do?"
"It's simple. Shouldn't be hard for a performer like you." Elara's smirk
widened. "When you see Julian, I want you to tell him. In your own words.
Describe exactly how you begged and pleaded to see him. Let him hear the full
story."
Tell Julian she had tried to seduce his own father?
Vivian's face went from red to sheet-white. Elara wasn't just putting
her in her place; she was trying to destroy her marriage utterly.
From the corner of her eye, Elara saw Silas glance at her. A flicker of
something—amusement, approval—crossed his features. He reached for the glass of
water on the table and handed it to her, a silent gesture of support.
Elara accepted it, took a graceful sip, and then levelled her gaze back
at Vivian. "Well? Have you decided? This is the chance you were crying for.
Weren't you just desperate to see your beloved husband?"
Cornered and with no escape, Vivian's mind raced. She forced a bitter,
wounded smile. "…Stepmother, you've truly misunderstood me. I've made mistakes
in the past, yes, but I'm carrying Julian's child now. I love him. How could I
possibly do something so… so despicable?" She infused her voice with a tremor
of righteous indignation. "…such a shameless thing."
"So you do know it's shameless," Elara fired back, her almond-shaped
eyes as cold and hard as diamonds.
Vivian bit her lip until she tasted blood. She was about to fabricate an
excuse to flee when a sound from the staircase provided a distraction.
Dr. Miller was descending, medical kit in hand.
Vivian seized the opportunity, rushing forward with a mask of concern.
"Doctor! How is the old lady?"
Silas remained seated, his gaze shifting lazily toward the doctor, a
silent king awaiting a report.
Dr. Miller first glanced at Vivian, then addressed Silas and Elara. "Mr.
Thorne, the old lady is fine. She experienced a syncopal episode due to
heightened emotions but is fully conscious now. However," he added
meaningfully, "at her advanced age, it is critical to avoid such… excitability.
The next time she faints, I cannot guarantee it won't result in a stroke,
leaving her permanently bedridden."
Silas gave a curt nod. "Understood. Thank you, Doctor."
"My pleasure, sir. It's my duty." Dr. Miller offered a small, knowing
smile. "And rest assured, I had a very thorough chat with the old lady about
her condition. She understands now that she must remain calm. Her health is the
top priority."
Watching the doctor's meaningful expression, Elara felt a bubble of
amusement. He saw right through her performance and decided to give her a
scare of her own.
Her theory was confirmed moments later when a servant arrived. "Sir,
Madam Ingrid requests your presence upstairs. The old lady wishes to speak with
Mr. Thorne."
Elara linked her arm through Silas's as they ascended the grand
staircase. Vivian, seeing her chance slipping away, hurried after them.
Inside the guest room, the scene was telling. The old lady was propped
up weakly against the headboard, a long-time servant feeding her sips of water.
Arthur stood by the window, his expression unreadable, while Ingrid lounged on
a plush armchair, a look of supreme satisfaction on her face.
"Remember this well, Old Madam," Ingrid said, her voice sweet yet laced
with steel. "The next time you decide to faint for dramatic effect, you might
not be so lucky. A stroke could leave you bedridden for the rest of your days.
What a miserable existence that would be."
The old lady's hand trembled, the water in the cup sloshing
precariously. She drew a sharp, hissed breath, forcibly suppressing the fury
that threatened to boil over. She had to remember not to fall into this shrew's
trap again. Ingrid was clearly trying to provoke her into an early grave.
As Elara and Silas entered, they witnessed the old woman's struggle to
contain her rage. Elara couldn't help but wonder if the doctor's stern warning
had finally forced a change in her attitude toward Silas.
"Silas, come here," the old lady commanded, though her voice lacked its
former fire, sounding strained and unnatural.
Silas ambled over, completely at ease.
Ingrid patted the spot next to her on the sofa, and Elara gladly joined
her, ready to watch the show.
"Silas, my boy," the old lady began, forcing her tone into a soft,
grandmotherly coo. "This old woman lost her head earlier. I was just so
terribly worried about Julian's safety that I lashed out. It was all
Grandmother's fault. You've always been such a good, dutiful boy. You won't
hold a grudge against your old grandmother, will you?"
She looked up at her grandson, a hesitant smile on her lips, though she
didn't dare reach for his hand.
Silas looked down at her, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, a
faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.
"Don't worry, Grandmother. I am a magnanimous man. I won't hold it
against you." His voice was smooth, but his words carried a double edge. "I
understand your concern for Julian. But this time, he has gone too far. He has
repeatedly challenged my authority as the head of this family. If every Thorne
heir behaved as he does, what would become of our family's prestige?"
He leaned in slightly, his gaze intent. "You've always been a woman of
reason and foresight. Disciplining my son is for the good of the Thorne
family's future. Surely, you wouldn't stand in the way of that now, would you?"
His argument was airtight, leaving no room for her usual hysterics. The
old lady deflated, her spine curving as she slumped against the headboard.
She let out a heavy, defeated sigh. "Then you must at least let me see
him. I need to see with my own eyes that he's alright."
"Of course," Silas agreed coolly. "That can be arranged."
Both the old lady and Vivian looked at him, their faces lighting up with
shock and elation. They hadn't expected him to capitulate so easily.
"But it will be just a visit," Silas continued, his voice leaving no
room for argument. "Once you've seen him and reassured yourself, you will
return to Ashbourne. With both Julian and me here in Oakhaven, the Thorne
estate needs you to hold the fort. We simply can't manage without your presence
there."
It was a masterstroke—a blatant piece of flattery that served as an
elegant banishment.
The old lady, preening slightly at being called indispensable, nodded
immediately. "Yes, yes, of course."
Only Vivian stood frozen, her hands clenched. This wasn't the plan. She
had come to stay.
"Shall we go see him now?" the old lady asked, eagerly trying to rise
from the bed.
Silas raised a hand. "There's no need to get up."
He pulled out his phone with a fluid motion and initiated a video call.
The truth dawned on everyone at once. His idea of "seeing" Julian was a
virtual visit.
The call connected after two rings. Ethan's face appeared on the screen.
"Boss?"
"Mm. The old lady and Julian's wife wish to see him."
Silas turned the phone screen toward his grandmother. Vivian scurried to
the bedside, jostling for a view, her heart pounding with a mixture of hope and
dread.
The old lady's breath hitched as the camera panned. There, seated in a
wheelchair, was Julian. Both his arms were encased in heavy white casts,
resting uselessly on his lap. His face was pale and haggard, his eyes vacant
and downcast.
"Julian! My boy, can you see your great-grandmother?" the old lady cried
out, her voice cracking.
Julian briefly lifted his eyes toward the camera, a flicker of shame and
defeat in their depths, before letting his head hang once more, refusing to
speak.
The sight was a physical blow to the old lady. Vivian's own heart
clenched in a vice of pain and shock. The proud, handsome man she knew had been
reduced to this broken shell in just a few days.
And then, a new voice, sweet and gentle, floated through the speaker.
"Julian, darling? It's time for your dinner."
The camera shifted slightly. A young woman, delicate and pretty, moved
into the frame. She bent down beside Julian's wheelchair, her gesture intimate
and possessive as she gently smoothed his hair.
Julian turned his head to look at her, his body language showing no
resistance, only a passive acceptance.
Vivian's face completely froze. Her eyes widened in utter disbelief,
staring at the screen as if she'd been slapped.
Who was that woman?!