The quiet hum of the Rolls-Royce was no match for the wave of drowsiness
that crashed over Elara after lunch. When Silas, ready to head to the office,
slid a hand along her lower back and murmured, "Come with me, darling. We'll
find some… amusement," she could only offer a sluggish blink.
"I can't," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "My brain has shut
down. All I want is my bed."
Seeing her struggle to keep her eyes open, a rare pang of tenderness
shot through Silas. Her exhaustion was his doing, after all. He made an
executive decision.
"Home, Ethan," he commanded, diverting their course. He dropped her at
the mansion, watching her drift inside before heading to his own rooms to
shower and change into a suit of armour—a flawlessly tailored, obsidian-black
ensemble that screamed of power and price.
The car didn't head towards the gleaming spire of Aeternum Corporation.
Instead, it turned into the gilded, discreet entrance of the Golden Splendour
Club, quiet and opulent in the afternoon lull.
They ascended to an eighth-floor office. Inside, four men of imposing,
weathered builds waited, the air around them humming with a restless energy
that stilled the moment Silas entered.
"Mr. Thorne," they chorused, rising in unison.
A curt nod. "Sit."
He moved with a predator's grace, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he
circled to the throne behind the desk. His gaze, cold and assessing, swept over
them.
"Is everything in place?"
Carpo John, a mountain of a man with a polished bald head, rubbed his
scalp and thumped his chest. "Locked down, sir. He won't be coming back. You
have my word."
The other three grunted their agreement.
From his post by the door, Ethan observed them with a lazy, cynical
smile. Their confidence was admirable. Their lives depended on it not being
misplaced.
One by one, the four detailed their preparations, their voices low and
serious.
Silas listened, leaning back in his leather chair, his slender fingers
tapping a silent, rhythmless beat on the polished wood. The pressure in the
room intensified with each tap.
"Do not be careless," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "I want
them alive. If they're broken, you will carry the pieces back to me. Is that
understood?"
"Understood, Mr. Thorne," they answered in grim unison, the weight of
the order settling on their shoulders.
"Carpo Andy. The rest of you are dismissed."
The three men filed out, leaving behind the one who looked most out of
place. With his gold-rimmed spectacles and refined dress, Carpo Andy could have
passed for a tenured professor, if one ignored the fierce tiger head tattoo
peeking from his cuff—a mark of the top-tier weapons specialist he was.
"What can I do for you, sir?" Andy asked, approaching the
desk. He pulled a cigarette case from his inner pocket and offered one with a
grin. "The young Mrs. Thorne keeping you on a short leash these days? Sure
you're allowed to smoke, Mr. Thorne?"
Silas shot him a wry look, took the cigarette, and rolled it between his
fingers before placing it between his lips. "The blueprints I gave you. When
will the prototype be ready?"
Andy chuckled, lighting his own cigarette. "Impatient, are we? It only
landed on my desk last night. These things can't be rushed."
"I want to see it tomorrow afternoon." Silas's tone brooked no argument.
He accepted the lit lighter from Andy and brought the flame to his cigarette.
Andy shook his head in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. You're the boss." He
watched as Silas took a deep, grateful drag, the smoke wreathing his head like
a halo. "Been that hard lately, has it? Can't even smoke in front of the little
wife?"
Silas bit down on the cigarette, a slow, deeply satisfied smirk
spreading across his face.
Damn right he was pleased.
The little minx had a bloodhound's nose. He'd managed a few furtive
puffs here and there, but the moment he got near her, she'd wrinkle that
perfect nose and push him away, complaining it made her feel sick.
He was utterly, completely whipped.
He'd have to scrub himself raw before going home, or she'd ban him from
her bed tonight.
"Never thought I'd see the day," Andy mused, exhaling a plume of smoke.
"The great Silas Thorne, brought to heel by a slip of a girl. I had money on
you dying a bachelor."
"Life is… unpredictable," Silas replied, his smile turning contemplative
as he watched the smoke curl. "I never imagined it either."
His mind drifted to a pivotal 'what if'. What if, on that fateful night,
he had thrown her out as he did with all other inconvenient distractions? Would
she have married Julian, living a life of quiet betrayal? Or would she have
moved on, becoming a cherished memory belonging to another man?
The very thought was a visceral rejection in his soul. There were no
'what ifs'. His body had recognised its mate from the first touch. It was
destiny.
She was crafted by heaven to be his.
And he was made to claim her.
Elara slept like the dead until four in the afternoon, only stirring
when the lively sounds of Annabelle returning from school filtered upstairs.
Since discovering the pregnancy, the young girl had become fiercely
attached to the idea of her unborn nieces and nephews, visiting daily.
"I'm not the baby anymore, I'm going to be an aunt!" she'd declared with
solemn gravity. "They have to know my voice, so they'll listen to me when
they're born."
Her precociousness never failed to amuse and exasperate Ingrid and Elara
in equal measure.
After the three of them shared snacks in the sun-dappled garden,
Annabelle was whisked away to tackle her homework.
Ingrid settled back with a cup of floral tea, her expression turning
practical. "The doctor says Vivian is stable. She can be discharged in two days
for bed rest."
Elara nodded, sipping her lemon water. "That's the main thing. The baby
is alright."
"She has only herself to blame," Ingrid said, her lips pursing in
distaste. "I reviewed the security logs from last night. She was skulking
around where she had no business being. Ethan startled her. Serves her right."
Elara had already pieced this together. The Winslow estate was a
fortress, every shadow monitored. Nothing happened without Ingrid's knowledge.
It was a self-inflicted scare. This time, the child was spared. Next
time… who could say?
Vivian's recklessness was a stark warning. Her own twins were growing,
and she was still in the precarious first trimester. She couldn't afford a
single misstep, not when so much was at stake.
Ingrid watched the understanding and resolve harden in Elara's eyes and
felt a surge of approval. So young, yet so composed. No hysteria, just quiet,
formidable strength.
Silas had chosen well. He'd plucked a jewel from the gutter, while that
wretched Julian… well, his loss was their gain.
She'd mentioned the incident precisely to prompt this level of caution
in Elara. Seeing it take root, she changed the subject.
"The Hudson christening is the day after tomorrow. Arthur and I won't be
attending. You and Silas should go."
Elara nodded. Ingrid took a final sip of tea. "Make an appearance, be
polite, and leave. That old fool Hudson trades on past favours from my
husband's family and thinks it makes him a king. I can't stand the sight of
him."
Elara hesitated, then ventured, "He specifically asked Silas to bring
Julian. He said he wants to meet 'the son Elora Cohen bore you'."
Ingrid's face darkened instantly, her teacup clattering against the
saucer.
"That meddling old snake!" she hissed, her composure shattering. "What
game is he playing now?"