The move was so fast it was a blur. One second, Sarah Vance was leaning
across the table, her voice a venomous hiss. The next, a sharp, sickening crack
echoed through the café as Brooke slammed her face-first into the polished
wood, her arm wrenched at a brutal angle behind her back.
A gasp, sharp and startled, ripped from Elara's throat. For a fleeting
moment, she was frozen, stunned by the sheer, visceral speed of it.
Then, a slow, simmering satisfaction warmed her veins.
Oh, yes. This is so much better than talking.
In that instant, she envied Brooke's lethal grace with a fierce, burning
passion. A silent vow etched itself into her mind: After this baby is born, I'm
learning how to do that.
"Ah! You're breaking my arm! Let go of me!" Sarah's shriek was
muffled against the table, her perfectly sculpted cheek flattened and
distorted. Pain and a tidal wave of humiliation turned her face a mottled red.
Her eyes, wide with panic, found Elara. "Elara! Call off your rabid
dog! Now!"
Elara leaned forward, propping her chin delicately on her hand. A
picture of wide-eyed innocence, her voice was a soft, chiding melody. "Oh,
dear. My apologies, Miss Vance. My bodyguard is very protective. You moved so
suddenly... you must have startled her."
"You—!" Sarah spat, fury choking her. She struggled, but
Brooke's grip was like iron, unyielding and punishing. "Elara, you're
going to regret this! Wait until Carlos hears about this! Let's see how you
explain your thuggish behaviour to him then! Ah!"
Her threat ended in another cry of pain as Brooke adjusted her hold, the
pressure increasing threateningly against her expensive new assets.
A flicker of approval passed from Elara to Brooke. Good girl.
Her gaze then drifted past Sarah's contorted form, spotting the two men
approaching from the distance. A calculated smile touched her lips. She made no
move to have Brooke release her.
"Miss Vance," Elara said, her voice dropping its innocent
pretence and turning cold and clear. "You should learn to mind your own
business. Women who make life difficult for other women… often find the
difficulty returned to them tenfold."
She watched, almost dispassionately, as a tear of pure rage and agony
slid from Sarah's eye. "You have your Charles. Yet here you are, knowingly
provoking Silas Thorne's wife. What, exactly, were you trying to prove?"
"That you're clever enough to snag a sugar daddy who can get you
close to my husband?"
Each word was a precision strike, delivered not with shouted insults,
but with a chilling, factual calm that cut deeper than any scream.
"What is the meaning of this?"
The booming, authoritative voice of Charles Hudson cut through the air.
His eyes, sharp but aging, had taken a moment to process the scene. His
goddaughter—his companion—was being publicly manhandled by a mere bodyguard.
The insult was a direct slap to his face.
"Charles! Help me!" Sarah wailed, the sound dripping with
manufactured distress the moment she heard him.
Silas Thorne, following half a step behind, took in the tableau. A
flicker of surprise was quickly masked by the usual icy composure, but the
corner of his mouth twitched, threatening a smile. His gaze, dark and intense,
locked onto his wife—the very picture of a distressed damsel, though he knew
better.
"Enough! Unhand her!" Charles commanded, glaring at Brooke.
Brooke didn't so much as flinch, her eyes fixed on Elara.
As Charles's furious attention swung toward Elara, she moved. In a
heartbeat, she was out of her chair, flying into Silas's arms, burying her face
in his chest.
"Darling!" she cried, her voice trembling, thick with unshed
tears. "You're here... I was so scared."
Charles watched, his expression thunderous.
Silas's arms closed around her, a fortress of tailored suit and solid
muscle. His heart clenched at her fragile tone. He pressed a kiss to her hair,
his voice a low, soothing rumble against her ear. "Hush, my love. I'm here
now. No one will frighten you again."
His head lifted, and his eyes—now glacial shards of obsidian—fixed on
Sarah, who was finally being released by Brooke but crumpled, sobbing, into a
chair.
"Charles..." she whimpered, clutching his arm like a lifeline.
Charles helped her sit, his protective gesture a clear message. His
sharp gaze swept from Brooke to Silas, his voice dripping with displeasure.
"Silas, Sarah is under my protection. Your wife's conduct is...
unbecoming. Has she gone too far?"
It was a clear challenge. He was blaming Elara, implying Silas had no
control over his household.
Before Silas could answer, Elara flinched in his arms, her small hands
fisting in the fabric of his jacket. He felt the subtle pressure.
Amusement curled inside him, but his face remained a mask of stern
authority.
"Uncle Hudson," Silas's voice was calm, yet it carried an
undeniable edge. "Let's not be hasty in assigning blame. My wife has a
timid disposition. For her bodyguard to react so decisively, Miss Vance must
have been exceptionally threatening. The bodyguard was merely doing her
job—protecting her charge from harm."
Charles actually let out a short, disbelieving laugh. He'd never seen
Silas defend anyone with such blatant, unapologetic bias.
Don't jump to conclusions, Silas said, while himself concluding that his
wife was an innocent victim.
"Sarah," Charles bit out, turning to her. "Explain. What
happened?"
Sarah, seeing her chance, looked up at him with tear-filled,
strategically smudged eyes. She was a mess, and Charles's lip curled in a
faint, unconscious flicker of distaste.
"Charles, I didn't do anything!" she insisted, her voice a
practiced quiver. "Mrs. Thorne and I simply had a... difference of
opinion. We exchanged words, and then her bodyguard just... attacked me for no
reason!"
It was the classic 'she-said, she-said.' In the absence of witnesses,
the first one to play the victim often won.
Charles's brow furrowed deeply, his stern gaze returning to Silas.
"Well? This is the quality of person you employ? Someone who dares to lay
hands on my guest?"
Elara chose that moment to pull back from Silas's embrace. She lifted a
delicate hand, dabbing at the perfectly timed tears glistening in the corners
of her eyes.
"Uncle Hudson," she began, her voice soft and laced with a
fragile courage that made Silas want to pull her back and applaud her
simultaneously. "You didn't see it. Miss Vance was so angry. She slammed
her hands on the table and glowered at me. She even kicked her chair back with
such force... I truly thought she was going to hit me with it. I was terrified.
If Brooke hadn't acted, I... I don't know what would have happened to me."
She gestured a trembling hand toward the heavy, white chair lying on its
side a few feet away—a silent, powerful piece of evidence. It was a solid piece
of furniture; it wouldn't have fallen like that without a significant, violent
motion.
Charles and Silas both looked at the toppled chair, their expressions
shifting.
Sarah felt a cold dread wash over her. This little actress was cornering
her with masterful precision. She couldn't deny the chair. And she absolutely
could not let Elara repeat the specific, cutting insults she'd hurled about
Silas's preferences.
"Charles, I would never!" Sarah cried, her grip tightening on
his arm. "You have to believe me! I never meant to harm her!"
But Charles's face was unreadable, his loyalty being weighed against
practical reality.
"Uncle Hudson," Silas's voice cut through Sarah's pleas, cold
and final. "My wife is timid and doesn't lie. The facts seem clear enough.
I don't know what game Miss Vance is playing by disrespecting my wife, but she
made her move. Now, she must face the consequences."
The air grew thick with his dominating presence, pressing down on both
Charles and Sarah.
Charles's jaw tightened. "And what consequences do you
propose?"
This was no longer about two women bickering. This was about power,
respect, and Silas drawing a line in the sand.
"For your sake, Uncle Hudson," Silas said, his tone leaving no
room for negotiation. "Miss Vance will offer a formal, public apology to
my wife. Furthermore, from this moment on, she will keep a minimum distance of
one hundred feet from Elara at all public and private functions."
He paused, letting the first part sink in before delivering the final,
devastating blow. His eyes, hard and calculating, met Charles's.
"As for our proposed project collaboration... The Winslow family
temple is rather small. It cannot accommodate such a... demanding deity.
Perhaps, Uncle Hudson, it would be best if you took your goddaughter back to
the Hudson estate to be worshipped there."
The message was unmistakable. Sarah Vance was a liability. Her presence
had just cost Charles Hudson a multimillion-dollar deal with the Thornes.