Elara emerged from her room feeling a tranquility she hadn't known in years. The oppressive silence of the Thorne mansion was no longer a cage, but a sanctuary. No venomous barbs from Lena, no guilt-laden nagging from her parents—just peace. She could simply exist, her only companion the stack of books steadily growing on her nightstand.
Entering the sun-drenched dining area, she found Cassian already at the table, a spread of breakfast fare between them. But the air was different. He was statue-still, his gaze fixed on nothing, his usual imposing presence weighed down by a profound gravity.
Trying to lighten the mood, she offered a soft, "Good morning, warlord."
There was no reaction. No subtle quirk of his lips, no flicker of amusement in his eyes. Nothing. This was strange. A knot of tension tightened in her stomach. Sitting down, she noticed his plate was pristine, untouched.
"Cassian?" she called gently.
He blinked, his focus slowly returning to her. "Hm?"
"Breakfast?" she prompted, gesturing to the food.
"I'm not hungry," he said, his voice rough. "Finish yours. We have a place to go."
"Where?" she asked.
A long, heavy silence stretched between them, so thick it was almost tangible. Finally, he spoke, the words seeming to cost him dearly. "Today... is Samuel's birthday." He paused, and Elara's breath hitched as the unspoken truth crashed down upon her. It was also the anniversary of his brother's murder. She simply nodded, her appetite was gone. Questions could wait.
Later, at the serene, windswept cemetery, the expected scene unfolded. Aris arrived late, his face a mask of performative grief.
"How touching," Aris sneered, looking at the fresh flowers Cassian had laid. "The great Cassian Thorne, playing the devoted brother. And he even brought his new accessory. Tell me, Uncle, do you bring her everywhere to remind people you're capable of human emotion?"
Cassian didn't flinch, his back rigid.
"It's a burden," Aris continued, his voice dripping with fake sadness, "to have to publicly endure you two on a day like this. My own father's death day."
Elara saw Cassian's fist clench so hard his knuckles turned white. The desire to shove Aris against the headstone was a palpable force in the air. Instead, Cassian controlled his compressed rage and turned abruptly. "Let's go," he murmured to Elara, his voice dangerously low.
In the car, Elara softly suggested, "Let's go home."
After a six-second pause that felt like a minute, he replied, "You should go first with my secretary. I'll come back later."
Elara didn't like it, not one bit. "Cassian—"
"Go," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
During the solitary ride back, Elara replayed the day. His empty plate, his trembling hands at the graveside, his distant gaze—his body was present, but his mind was a lost soul wandering in a desolate past. The secretary's voice broke her reverie. "Don't worry too much, Mrs. Thorne. This is the only day he is like this. He visits the grave first thing, stays for hours, then... disappears. He always comes home, very late. He'll be safe."
His words offered little comfort. Home by 11:00 PM was one thing. But when the clock ticked past an hour, then another, with no word, her worry curdled into fear. She waited in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes fixed on the doorway.
Finally, the sound of unsteady footsteps and the clatter of the door. He was back. He moved like a ghost, not acknowledging her, heading straight for the sofa where he collapsed, his body sinking into the cushions as if defeated.
"Cassian?" she called out, her voice laced with concern.
He slowly turned his head. Elara's breath caught. This was the same man, but his eyes... they were the eyes of a stranger—shattered, swimming in a toxic mix of rage, sorrow, and bitter resentment.
"Why the hell are you here? Huh?" he slurred, his voice raw. "Did he reject you? Weren't you supposed to be disposed of anyway?!" He surged to his feet. "You venomous, vile woman! Get out of my life! Get out of my house! Now!"
Elara was thunderstruck. Venomous? Vile? me?
"Get out!" he roared, lurching forward and grabbing her shoulders with bruising force. "Didn't you hear me? Or are you here for the shares? The stocks? The money?" "Cassian!" His gaze dropped to her lips, a dark, possessive look in his eyes. "My body? Here!"
Before she could react, he crushed his mouth to hers. It wasn't a kiss; it was an assault, fueled by alcohol and a bottomless well of pain. She struggled, pushing against his unyielding chest repeatedly, finally wrenching her mouth away to gasp for air.
"Can't handle the heat, Jeanette?" he growled, his breath hot against her cheek.
Jeanette. The name was a splash of cold reality. He thought she was his first wife.
As he moved to kiss her again, instinct took over.
BAM!
Her open palm connected with his cheek with a crack that echoed in the silent penthouse. The force of it sent him stumbling back against the arm of the sofa.
"CASSIAN THORNE! SNAP OUT OF IT!" she shouted, her voice trembling not with fear, but with furious, desperate command.
The slap seemed to cleave through the haze. He blinked, his hand going to his stinging cheek. His wild, broken gaze cleared, focusing under the dim moonlight filtering through the windows. He saw her clearly now—not the ghost of a treacherous wife, but Elara. Her hair disheveled, her lips swollen, her grey eyes wide with a mixture of fury, shock, and… fear. Of him.
The realization was a physical blow, a bucket of icy shame dousing the fire in his veins. The rage vanished, leaving only a vast, hollowed-out emptiness and a self-loathing so profound it stole his breath. He wasn't alone in this lifeless house anymore. He had someone who filled the silence with life, and he had just tried to shatter her.