The raw confession hung in the air between them. Silas had laid his soul
bare—his fear, his failure, his vow. Seeing the storm of regret and anguish in
his eyes, Elara's heart softened. She took the hand pressed against her lips
and guided it to her cheek, her smaller hand covering his in a gentle embrace.
Their gazes locked, a silent conversation passing between them.
Her expression was earnest, her voice a gentle murmur. "I don't blame
you. You're not a god; you can't foresee every twist of fate. Within your
power, you did everything to protect me. When Steven pointed a gun at your
chest and demanded your life for mine… you didn't hesitate for a second, did
you?"
From the moment he'd first brought her to Oakhaven and she'd glimpsed
the shadows he commanded, she had made her choice. She had known a day like
last night might come; she just never expected the blow to fall so soon, or so
hard.
Her understanding only made the weight on his conscience heavier. It
felt like shards of glass were lodged in his chest, swelling until he could
barely breathe. His palm, scorchingly hot, stroked her cheek with a reverence
that made her want to cry.
"You foolish, brave girl," he whispered, his voice thick. "Failing to
protect you, allowing you and our children to be harmed… that is my greatest
failure. No excuse can erase my miscalculation."
Elara's slender fingers traced the rough contours of his hand, a small,
tender smile touching her lips. "If you truly feel you've wronged me, then your
punishment is to spend every moment from now on thinking of how to better
protect us. But if you ever let us…"
"There will never be a next time." His voice was a low, unyielding vow,
cutting her off. "I will not make that mistake again in this lifetime. I would
rather carve out my own heart than see you endure another moment of pain."
"Don't say such things," Elara chided, her delicate brows knitting
together. "We both have to stay safe. If you dare leave me a young widow, I
won't hesitate to hire a troupe of male models to dance on your grave. I'll
make sure it haunts you for eternity."
A surprised laugh, rough with emotion, broke from Silas's lips. The grim
tension shattered. The hand that had been caressing her face moved to pinch her
cheek playfully. "Keep dreaming. You will never get that chance. Even in death,
I'm taking you with me."
Elara swatted his hand away, a mock scowl on her face. "Don't be so
domineering. I refuse to be buried alive with you."
Their shared laughter was a brief, precious respite, but the thorn of
the incident was buried deep in Silas's heart, a constant reminder.
The moment was broken by the door opening. Ingrid entered, her
expression grim. Behind her, supported by a servant, was Old Lady Thorne. The
matriarch's face was a thundercloud, her sharp eyes immediately finding Silas.
He had just finished feeding Elara, the bowl still in his hands. He gave
the newcomers a cursory glance, then meticulously finished his task, helping
Elara rinse her mouth and dab the corners of her lips with a cloth.
Only after tidying everything away and wiping his hands did he turn a
cool gaze to his grandmother. "We'll speak outside."
He strode into the small adjoining sitting room, a clear dismissal. He
would not let the old woman's toxicity seep into Elara's sickroom.
Old Lady Thorne's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She shot a
long, venomous look at Elara, propped up in the hospital bed, before turning on
her heel and following him.
Ingrid, however, settled herself firmly beside Elara's bed, a silent
sentinel. This was Silas's battle to fight.
As soon as the sitting room door was pulled shut by a servant, leaving
only a crack open, the old lady erupted.
"Do you not owe me an explanation for last night?" Her walking stick
struck the floor with a sharp crack. "You take a perfectly healthy woman to a
christening banquet, and Vivian loses her child! And now you have the audacity
to disown your own son? Raised for twenty-two years, and you think you can just
dismiss him with a word?"
She glared at Silas, who remained impassive on the opposite sofa. "Let
me make this clear: however dissatisfied you are with Julian, you cannot sever
the bond of blood!"
As if he had been expecting this, Silas stood, retrieved a manila folder
from a side cabinet, and handed it to her without a word.
"Read it. Should I fetch your reading glasses?" His tone was flat,
devoid of any emotion.
The old lady's expression darkened further. She stared at his
outstretched hand for a long moment before snatching the documents.
Her eyes scanned the pages. With every line, the wrinkles on her face
seemed to deepen, her posture stiffening. When her gaze fell upon the final,
conclusive line of the paternity assessment, her cloudy eyes flickered wildly.
Her age-spotted hands began to tremble.
Silas watched her, his dark eyes missing nothing.
"Do you see clearly now, Grandmother?" he said, his voice dangerously
quiet. "Julian and I share not a single drop of blood."
The words were a trigger. With a furious cry, the old woman threw her
walking stick aside and tore the report in two, then into quarters, her
movements frantic.
"This is a forgery!" she shrieked, hurling the shredded paper at him.
"You're deceiving me! I won't believe it! Why would you even get a paternity
test? You brought him home! You showed me the proof all those years ago! Now,
for that girl, you produce this lie?"
Her voice rose to a shrill pitch, deliberately loud enough to carry.
"You've been bewitched! She's an orphan, a leech who lived off others! She's
cunning! All she wants is your money! Julian is your only son! Does she think
that by tricking you with this nonsense, she can have it all?"
"Tell her to stop dreaming! As long as I draw breath, she will never
succeed!"
In the other room, Elara heard every poisonous word. Ingrid squeezed her
hand. "The ramblings of a senile old woman. Don't let her vitriol touch you."
Elara managed a small, tight smile. "I know. I'm not. But her denial…
it's so stubborn. She saw the report. Why won't she believe it?" Instead, she
just keeps blaming me.
Ingrid's well-preserved face grew unusually grave, a flicker of deep
thought in her eyes.
Inside the sitting room, the air was thick enough to choke on.
Silas's gaze was glacial. "Grandmother," he said, the word a warning.
"This is the last time I will say this. Elara is my wife. I will not hear her
disparaged again. She is kind, and she does not seek vengeance. But I am not
kind. I protect what is mine, ruthlessly."
"You seem to forget I am thirty-seven, not a child. I am more than
capable of judging character. This is no longer your concern."
"You can shred that report a thousand times. It doesn't change the
truth. Julian is not my son."
A scornful smirk touched his lips. "Since you refuse to believe your
eyes, we will do it in front of you."
He picked up his phone and dialled. "Bring Julian and a doctor from the
DNA department. Now."
Old Lady Thorne's face cycled from crimson to a deathly pale. As he
ended the call, she sank back, eyes closed, her lips trembling uncontrollably.
It wasn't long before Ben arrived with Julian and a white-coated doctor.
As they filed into the sitting room, Elara and Ingrid listened intently
from the ward.
Julian looked wrecked. He had kept a sleepless vigil by Vivian's side,
still wearing the same dark, crumpled suit from the night before. His light
blue shirt was stained with dried blood. Both his arms were bandaged and
suspended in slings, his entire being a portrait of exhaustion and defeat.
He stood a few paces from Silas, his head bowed, his expression a hollow
mask.
The old lady's eyes filled with a complicated mix of pity and
frustration at the sight of him.
"You understood what I told you last night," Silas stated, his dark gaze
pinning Julian.
Julian blinked slowly, then lifted his head. His voice was eerily calm,
devoid of all fight.
"I know I am not a Thorne by blood."
"You need not worry. I will not cling to a name that isn't mine.
Whatever you decide to do with me… I will not object."