Vivian's hospital room had felt like a gilded cage for two
days. She had assumed discharge would mean a quiet, humiliating return to the
old lady's estate in Ashbourne, hidden away from the world. So, when the
message came from Julian's father's people that afternoon, it felt like a
divine intervention.
She was to accompany Julian to the Hudson family
christening. It was an order, not a request.
A flicker of triumph warmed her chest. This changes
everything, she thought, her hand drifting to her still-flat stomach. He
wouldn't bring me if he didn't see a future for this child.
Julian's reaction, however, was a bucket of cold water. He
simply frowned when he saw her, his gaze icy, and instructed his private nurse
to stay behind. His silence was more punishing than any words. But the mere
fact that she was here, by his side in public, was enough to fan that spark of
hope into a determined flame.
The Hudson's seaside estate was a blaze of light against the
twilight sky, a beacon of old money and influence. The air itself smelled of
salt, expensive perfume, and the faint, sweet note of champagne. As the Winslow
motorcade purred into the cobblestone courtyard, it drew every eye. In
Oakhaven, few families could command such a presence while maintaining their
privileged ties to the powerful Hudson clan.
The arrival of Silas Thorne himself was the real shocker. He
was a ghost at social functions, a man who preferred boardrooms to ballrooms.
His appearance tonight sent a ripple of sharpened curiosity through the crowd.
He emerged from the car first, his imposing figure cutting a
sharp silhouette. Then, he turned, offering his hand to the woman inside. Elara
placed her slender fingers in his, allowing him to guide her out with a
possessiveness that was impossible to miss. She was young, stunning, and moved
with a quiet confidence that silenced the whispers before they even began.
Brooke followed, a study in sharp angles and dark fabric,
his good hand carrying an exquisitely wrapped gift. Then came Julian and
Vivian, a pair of wounded birds with their arms in plaster, completing the
bizarre and fascinating portrait of the Winslow family.
Old Mr. Hudson, jolly and flushed with champagne and the joy
of his new grandson, hurried forward as they entered the opulent main hall.
"Silas! I'd nearly given up hope of ever seeing you at one
of these things!" he boomed, clapping Silas on the shoulder. His twinkling eyes
then drifted past him, landing on Julian. They narrowed for a moment, then
widened in dawning recognition.
"Good heavens," the old man breathed, his voice dropping.
"This is the boy… the one from the Cohen girl?"
Silas's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He gave a
single, terse nod.
A profound, knowing look passed over Old Mr. Hudson's face.
"Excellent," he murmured, more to himself than to them. "The Cohen line
endures." He seemed to want to say more, to inquire about the casts, but the
weight of the watching crowd held him back. He leaned closer to Silas, his tone
shifting to one of grave significance. "Don't leave early. Fortune smiles
tonight. An old… acquaintance… is most eager to see you."
"Mm." Silas's response was a low rumble, his dark eyes
turning stormy.
"Master Hudson," Elara interjected smoothly, her voice a
balm to the sudden tension. She took the gift from Brooke and presented it with
a graceful smile. "A small token for your grandson. May his life be filled with
light."
"My dear, your presence is gift enough! Such formality!" Mr.
Hudson beamed at her, the memory of their encounter at the golf course vividly
reminding him that this was no mere trophy wife. Her composure was a force of
nature.
Elara simply inclined her head, her smile never wavering as
he personally escorted them to a prime table.
Julian watched the exchange, his mind racing. This old man
knows everything. He knows about my mother. About the Cohens. The pieces of his
fractured history were slowly, painfully, clicking into place.
As they settled, Elara leaned into Silas, her lips brushing
his ear. Her scent, a mix of jasmine and cool night air, enveloped him. "The
'old friend'… it's Steven Cohen, isn't it?"
"Undoubtedly," Silas replied, his voice low. His hand found
hers under the crisp white tablecloth, his fingers lacing through hers in a
silent promise. I'm here.
The warmth of his grasp was her anchor.
The banquet commenced in a whirl of clinking silver and
cheerful chatter. Elara, having eaten beforehand, merely sipped her water, her
observant eyes scanning the room. Suddenly, her cup stilled mid-air. Her body
went rigid.
Beneath the table, her knee pressed urgently against Silas's
leg.
He followed her gaze to the entrance.
And there he was.
Steven Cohen, dressed in immaculate white from head to toe,
stood framed in the doorway like a fallen angel. He was tall, slender, and
carried an aura of razor-blade charm that cut through the room's opulence.
The moment their eyes met, the air crackled with a decade of
hatred.
A slow, mocking smile curled Steven's lips before he
deliberately looked away, as if dismissing them.
As he moved further into the room, the crowd parted
instinctively. The hulking, black-clad bodyguard shadowing him ensured a wide
berth. By the time Old Mr. Hudson noticed the disturbance, Steven was already
at his table.
The old man's jovial expression froze, then shattered into
one of pure shock.
"Old Mr. Hudson, congratulations," Steven's voice was like
silk wrapped around a dagger. "I hope you don't mind a little… unexpected joy?"
"Steven Cohen?" Mr. Hudson hastily passed his grandson to
his son and stood, his eyes narrowing into slits as he scrutinised the man
before him.
"You remember me? I'm touched." Steven's smile widened, but
it never reached his cold, crinkled eyes. "On such a happy occasion, you won't
deny me a chance to bask in the glow of family, will I? A man who has never
been blessed with a son… or a grandson."
Old Mr. Hudson recovered his composure with a forced, hearty
laugh. He stepped forward and patted Steven's shoulder with a familiarity that
seemed to pain him. "It is you, lad. Still that viper's tongue." His gaze
darted around, looking for a place to put him. "Of course, you are welcome."
But Steven was already moving, his chin pointing toward the
Winslows' table. "That one will do. It's close to you, Uncle Hudson, and it
looks like they have room for a little more… drama."
He didn't wait for a reply. He strode over, his bodyguard a
menacing shadow, and stopped directly behind Elara's chair.
"Well, well, Mrs. Thorne ," he purred, his voice dripping
with false delight. "What a… delightful coincidence."
Elara's knuckles turned white where she gripped her handbag.
He was baiting Silas, using her as the hook, and it was utterly contemptible.
She drew a slow breath, ready to deliver a cutting retort, but Silas's voice
cut through the air first, calm and lethally sharp.
"If we are speaking of coincidences," Silas said, his gaze
locked on Steven, "then yours and mine seems less like fate and more like an
unresolved debt."
Steven's smirk deepened. He seemed to relish the challenge.
"Uncle Hudson," Silas continued, his attention shifting to
their flustered host without ever lowering his guard. "Though he may be
uninvited, he has traveled far. We wouldn't mind setting another place."
A stunned silence fell over their corner of the room. Old
Mr. Hudson's eyes darted between the two men, a silent war playing out in the
space between them. "Very well!" he finally declared, a little too loudly. "If
it's agreeable to you both, then so be it!"
Steven didn't hesitate. He slid smoothly into the empty seat
beside Vivian, effectively trapping her between himself and Julian.
Vivian flinched. His presence was like a sudden drop in
temperature, cold and suffocating.
Julian's every instinct screamed in warning. The sight of
Steven Cohen triggered a primal sense of dread, a feeling that the carefully
constructed walls of his life were about to crumble.
The meal resumed, but the air at their table was thick
enough to choke on. Steven finally broke the silence, raising his glass in a
mock toast.
"A true blessing, Silas," he began, his tone deceptively
light. "To reach your age with such a… radiant young wife. And this fine son,"
he said, his eyes sweeping over Julian with a predatory interest. "So handsome.
So distinguished. The spitting image of my dear, departed sister."
He paused, letting the venom settle.
"Seeing your picture-perfect family gathered here… it would
simply warm her heart. Wherever she is."
The words hung in the air, a beautiful, poisonous flower
laid upon a grave. The unspoken challenge was clear: I know your secrets. And I
am here to bury you with them.