Her eyelashes fluttered down. Steven Cohen, Elora Cohen… what was their
story? What was his story with them?
In that moment, the sixteen years between them felt like a chasm. It
wasn't just time; it was a lifetime of intricate, painful experiences she knew
nothing about.
Pushing down her tangled emotions, she remembered his phone call in
Ashbourne. "What if Valenti refuses to hand Steven over?"
"Then it becomes a simple question of whether his son's life is
worth more to him than a stranger's," Silas replied, a cold derision in
his eyes. "It won't be long. A couple of days, at most. His son won't last
much longer."
A metallic taste of blood seemed to fill the air. Elara swallowed hard,
fighting a wave of nausea.
"But why wait for Steven Cohen to tell the old lady about Julian?
What's the connection…" Her thoughts raced, tumbling over one another
until a horrifying possibility dawned on her. Her eyes snapped open wide, a
gasp escaping her lips. "Could it be… is the old lady involved in faking
Julian's lineage?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. The conjecture felt like uncovering
a seismic secret.
Watching the shock and disbelief war on her face, Silas gave a silent,
wry smile. He reached out and ruffled her hair.
"My wife, the brilliant analyst. Your imagination is truly
something else."
Elara ignored his teasing, her fingers tightening around his arm.
"Well? Did I guess right?"
His smile faded. "That is a question I, too, would very much like
answered."
So, he didn't know. He only suspected.
A wave of relief washed over her, followed by a pang of pity. It would
be better—so much better—if the old lady had no part in it. She was still his
grandmother. To find out she had been scheming against him all along…
Silas saw the fleeting pity in his young wife's eyes and felt an
unexpected warmth spread through his chest. He drew her into his embrace,
tucking her head under his chin.
"Don't worry. There is nothing the old lady could do that would
truly surprise me anymore. She can't hurt me."
His heart had been fortified long ago.
"Mm." Nestled against him, surrounded by his clean, masculine
scent, Elara felt her worries slowly settle.
They stood in comfortable silence for a long moment.
"Go change," he said, finally releasing her and pulling her
up. "I'm taking you out to dinner."
A genuine smile lit up her face. "Really?" The night views of
Oakhaven were legendary, and she'd never experienced them with him.
She assumed he meant a fancy restaurant. She didn't expect Ethan to
drive them to Victoria Harbour, nor to see the stunning, private yacht waiting
for them.
It was a vision of romance. The deck was adorned with delicate fairy
lights, fragrant flowers, and shimmering balloons. As night fell, the city
across the water began to glitter, a symphony of light.
On the upper deck, a table dressed in crisp white linen was set with
gleaming silver and crystal, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. The
gentle notes of a piano sonata wove through the salt-tinged air.
The harbour transformed into a river of stars, the skyscrapers painting
rainbows across the dark water. It was magical.
"It's breathtaking," Elara whispered, turning to Silas. The
starlight and city lights seemed to dance in her luminous eyes.
A slow smile touched his lips. "If you like it, we can come every
night. Until you grow tired of it."
"I'd love that," she giggled, the sound like bells. "But
I'll never get tired of it. I'm more afraid you'll get tired of bringing
me."
His smile deepened, his gaze intensifying. "You're welcome to test
that theory."
Grinning, she spun away from him, her steps light as she returned to the
table. It was a joke, of course. She wouldn't really expect him to do this
every night.
She had changed into a flowing white gown with delicate embroidery, the
fabric swaying around her ankles in the breeze. Her dark curls were swept up
into a loose princess bun, a few tendrils framing her face. Tiny diamond
hairpins sparkled beside her temples, catching the light. She looked ethereal,
glowing from within.
Silas watched her, his dark eyes tracing her every movement. One hand
was tucked in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the velvet box there.
His heart beat a steady, certain rhythm.
"Silas," she called out, already seated, her tone playfully
chiding. "Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to join
me for dinner?"
Silas. His name on her lips was both a pleasure and a provocation. He
closed the distance between them in a few strides. His hands came to rest on
her shoulders from behind, and he leaned down, his lips finding the soft shell
of her ear.
He nipped at her earlobe, not hard, but with enough pressure to send a
jolt of pure sensation straight through her. It was a mix of sharp pleasure and
dizzying warmth that coiled deep in her belly.
"Call me 'husband'," he commanded, his voice a husky whisper
against her sensitive skin. "The next time you call me by my name, the
consequence will be far less gentle."
In truth, he wanted to claim her mouth, to kiss her until they were both
breathless. But he held back, fearing he'd lose the last shreds of his control.
Her earlobe was so soft, so yielding against his tongue.
Elara blushed from her hairline to her chest. His warm breath was as
intoxicating as his presence, seeping into her very bones. She shivered,
turning her head to pout at him.
"Fine then, you old grump," she teased, pushing lightly at his
chest. "Now, let's eat. Your baby is starving."
Silas straightened with a wry shake of his head. Old grump. So, she was
leaning into the 'uncle' nickname now. Let her have her fun. Soon enough, he'd
have her calling him 'husband' in a very different, much more intimate context.
The candlelit dinner was perfect. The atmosphere, the view, the
food—every detail was tailored to her tastes. They talked and laughed, and for
the first time in days, Elara ate without a hint of nausea, her heart feeling
light and full.
Just as she thought the perfect evening was concluding, Silas stood. He
retrieved a small velvet box from his pocket and walked over to her.
Her breath hitched. A warm, fluttering feeling spread through her chest.
His large, capable hand extended towards her. Meeting his smouldering
gaze, Elara felt a nervous thrill. She slowly placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, firm and sure, as he drew her to her
feet. Under the starlit sky, their shadows merged into one.
He opened the box. Nestled inside were two rings—simple, exquisite, and
unmistakably a pair.
"The wedding ring I owed you," he said, his voice softer than
she'd ever heard it. "It only just arrived last night."
He took the smaller ring, held her slender left hand, and slid it onto
her finger. The fit was perfect.
It was breathtaking. A delicate vine pattern wove around the platinum
band, its leaves and stems culminating in a twin-petaled flower at the centre,
where a brilliant red diamond was set, catching the candlelight.
"Two wings perched on the tree of longing, twin blossoms on the
intertwined branches..." The line of poetry drifted through her mind.
"I designed it myself," he said, watching her reaction
closely. "Do you like it?"
Her heart swelled with emotion. She looked up at him, stunned. "But
you said you would hire a designer..."
"I did," he replied, a proud, masculine smirk gracing his
lips. "I hired myself."
Elara's face broke into a radiant, awe-filled smile. "I had no idea
you were so talented. Jewellery design… it's incredible."
She truly meant it. It was hard to reconcile this artistic, meticulous
side with the powerful, often ruthless businessman he was.
"There are many things you don't know about me yet, my love,"
he murmured, his smile intimate. "You have a lifetime to discover them
all. Now," he prompted, handing her the other ring. "Put mine
on."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she took the heavier, masculine band.
This was more than a piece of jewellery; it was a promise, a claim, a new
beginning under the glittering tapestry of the Oakhaven night. And as she slid
the ring onto his finger, she knew, with a certainty that shook her to her
core, that her life was irrevocably, wonderfully, his.