The voice that had slithered out of the phone speaker was sweet,
feminine, and utterly, infuriatingly familiar. It was the same voice Vivian had
heard cooing over Julian just moments before, and it echoed in the lavish
living room, a blatant challenge to her very existence.
A hot, impulsive jealousy seized her. Her carefully constructed
composure shattered.
"Julian," she demanded, her voice tight and strained, cutting
through the tense silence. "Who is she?"
The question hung in the air, a desperate plea wrapped in frustration.
Everyone heard it. Everyone saw the crack in the facade of the perfect,
expecting wife.
Elara and Ingrid exchanged a glance that was anything but subtle. A
flicker of cold, satisfied amusement passed between them. They were enjoying
the show, relishing every second of Vivian's public unraveling.
Old Lady Thorne, from her regal armchair, had undoubtedly registered the
other woman's presence on the call. Yet, her expression remained one of
profound indifference. Julian's well-being was her only concern, not the
dramatics of his wife.
"Julian," the matriarch's voice was a dry rustle of leaves,
bypassing Vivian's outburst entirely. "How are you feeling? Is your health
stable?"
On the screen, Julian merely offered a weak, dismissive shake of his
head, his gaze averted.
Ethan's cheerful, booming voice filled the void, a stark contrast to the
stifling mood in the room. "Rest assured, Lady Thorne! Young Master Julian
just needs a period of peaceful recuperation here. I've arranged for a
professional nurse to see to his every need. When you see him next, I guarantee
he'll be the picture of health!"
Vivian's heart hammered against her ribs. A professional nurse? Was that
what they were calling her now?
"Right then, Lady Thorne, Young Master Julian is off to dinner
now," Ethan continued, blithely unaware—or perhaps acutely aware—of the
bomb he was dropping. "Don't fret over him. Once he's fully recovered,
he'll come back to you. We'll see you all in Ashbourne in a few days."
The finality in his tone sent a jolt of pure panic through Vivian.
"Julian! Julian, wait—say something!" she cried out, her voice
cracking.
But the screen went dark. The connection was severed, leaving her
staring at her own pale, horrified reflection in the black glass.
Silas had already pocketed his phone, his face an unreadable mask.
Desperate, Vivian whirled around, her eyes swimming with unshed tears as she
fell to her knees before the old lady's chair. The performance of a lifetime
was her only remaining card.
"Great-grandmother, please," she begged, her voice a trembling
whisper. "He's recuperating in Oakhaven. How can I just leave him? I am
his wife. It is my duty, my right, to be the one caring for him. If I am by his
side, you can rest easy in Ashbourne, knowing he is in loving hands. Please,
let me stay."
The plea was perfectly pitched, designed to appeal to the old woman's
sense of family and propriety. For a moment, it worked.
Lady Thorne's stern expression softened. She pondered, her gnarled
fingers tapping the armrest. "Silas," she conceded. "Vivian does
have a point. When it comes to Julian's care, no one would be more devoted than
his own wife. An old woman like me is of little use here. Perhaps it is best if
Vivian remains."
Vivian's heart leapt, a flicker of triumph in her chest.
But then, a voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, cut through her
hope.
"Grandmother," Elara interjected gently, stepping forward. Her
expression was one of pure, feigned concern. "With all due respect, you
seem to have forgotten that Vivian is three months pregnant. She requires care
herself; how could she possibly manage the strain of looking after an invalid?
As Ethan said, there are professional staff in place. You needn't fret. It's
best if Vivian focuses her energy on the precious heir she carries."
A venomous rage, hot and swift, flooded Vivian's veins. You meddling
bitch!
She expected the old lady to snap at Elara for her impudence, but
instead, a thoughtful silence fell. Julian was important, but the Thorne
bloodline, the future heir growing in Vivian's womb, was sacrosanct. The
reminder was a masterstroke.
It also, inconveniently, brought to the matriarch's mind the
still-unresolved matter of Elara's own supposed pregnancy, a mystery her spies
at Stonehaven Villa had failed to crack. Irritation, that familiar companion,
resurfaced.
Her lips pressed into a thin, white line. She closed her eyes, a clear
signal that the audience was over. "Enough. No more discussion. This
matter is settled. We return to Ashbourne in two days."
"Great-grandmother, my health is excellent! It's no trouble at
all!" Vivian tried one last time, her voice rising in desperation.
"And Julian... he would want to be near the baby, to feel its presence, it
would speed his—"
"I said enough!" The old woman's voice cracked like a whip,
her eyes flying open to pin Vivian with a look of pure exhaustion and
impatience. "I need to rest. Everyone, out."
The elderly maid moved swiftly to adjust the pillows, helping her lie
down. The dismissal was absolute.
Silas, without a second glance, took Elara's arm and guided her from the
room, a united front. Ingrid shot a meaningful look at Arthur before they too
filed out, leaving Vivian standing alone in the centre of the opulent room.
Her head bowed, the picture of a defeated wife, but beneath the veil of
her hair, her eyes burned with a poison that could kill. That old hag didn't
care about her at all. She had seen another woman claim what was rightfully
Vivian's, and she had done nothing.
And Elara... Oh, Elara. If that viper hadn't opened her mouth, the old
woman would never have changed her mind.
Her fists clenched at her sides, her manicured nails digging deep, sharp
crescents into her soft palms. The physical pain was a welcome distraction, a
tiny vent for the inferno of hatred threatening to consume her.
Slowly, mechanically, she followed the others downstairs.
In the grand foyer below, Ingrid was already playing the gracious
hostess. "You two needn't trouble yourselves with meals here these next
few days," she told Silas and Elara. "I will keep the old lady
company. Mind your own affairs. Elly, you haven't visited the Aeternum branch
here in Oakhaven yet, have you? Silas, you should take her. Show her the
family's reach."
"Right," Silas agreed, his tone easy.
He led Elara towards the main entrance, their hands linked. The
afternoon sun streamed through the open door, framing their retreating figures
in a halo of golden light, their silhouettes merging into one.
It was that image—the perfect, untouchable unity of them—that finally
broke Vivian.
Why? Why must she suffer this agonising separation from Julian, alone
and carrying his child? Why must she stand by, powerless, while some faceless
woman took her place at his side?
And why, while her world was crumbling to ash, could Elara walk away,
hand-in-hand with Silas, looking so incandescently, infuriatingly happy?
The resentment crested, a tidal wave of pure, undiluted fury that
promised one thing, and one thing only: retribution.