The private pool on the penthouse terrace shimmered like a sheet of liquid turquoise under the Sunday sun. Elara moved through the water with easy, powerful strokes, the coolness a welcome balm on her skin. The stress of the boardroom, the echoes of her family's drama, all of it melted away with each lap. She was a study in fluid motion, her body sleek and strong in a simple black swimsuit.
On the sidelines, Cassian lay sprawled on a plush beach chair under a wide umbrella. Dressed only in low-slung black swim trunks, his body was a testament to disciplined strength—the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, all on display. A pair of sleek black sunglasses hid his eyes as he sipped from a glass of iced water, condensation dripping down the sides. He wasn't reading or working; his attention was fixed, unmoving, on his wife cutting through the water.
After a final lap, Elara pulled herself from the pool, water streaming from her body in rivulets. She grabbed a thick, white towel from a nearby stand and began drying her hair as she walked over to the chair beside his.
"You won't swim?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless.
He took a slow sip of his drink. "Nah. I'm already quite sweaty," he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "My wife is so hot."
"Mmh!" she let out a mock-offended sound, playfully swatting his rock-solid arm before dropping into her own chair and turning her head away with a feigned huff. A small, genuine smile played on her lips.
The comfortable silence stretched, filled with the distant hum of the city and the gentle lapping of the pool water. After a few minutes, Cassian's voice cut through the tranquility, the playful tone gone, replaced by a familiar, serious note.
"Elara."
She turned her head back to him, pushing her damp hair from her face. "Hm?"
"I have to go on a business trip tomorrow."
She sat up a little straighter. "So sudden?"
"To Singapore," he clarified, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "To 'clean some junk,' you see."
Elara understood immediately. He was going to deal with the remnants of Aris's network, the traitors and their illicit deals. A cold trickle of worry ran down her spine, but she knew better than to voice it. This was a necessary task, and he was the only one who could do it.
"Oh… okay," she replied, her voice soft.
She looked out over the city skyline. "I will miss you."
"I'll miss you too," he said, his voice softening. He reached out, his fingers brushing her damp forearm. "Take care of yourself while I'm away. Promise me."
She nodded, leaning her head back against the chair and closing her eyes, savoring the last of the sun's warmth. "I will."
"But there's something else we need to talk about," he continued, his tone shifting back to business. "Something even more important."
A small, wry smile touched her lips. "Something even more important than cleaning junk in Singapore?" she retorted, opening one eye to look at him.
"Yes," he said, completely deadpan. "Grandma's birthday is in two weeks. There's a family rule. Every year, the entire Thorne clan, direct and indirect, gathers at her personal mansion a full week before the actual birthday. I've… negotiated my attendance. I'll be back just in time. But you," he said, pointing a finger at her, "you have to be there from the very first day. No excuses allowed."
Elara absorbed this. A whole week with the Thornes? The thought was daunting. "When will you come back?" she asked.
"On the morning of her birthday itself. There's a small, private family celebration in the morning, and then the usual monstrous high-society banquet in the evening."
"Okay," she said, mentally steeling herself. "But what about the gift? What should we get for her?"
Cassian was silent for a moment, thinking. "Hmm… since you have such a good eye for these things, why don't you choose an antique for her?"
"I can do that," Elara agreed, nodding. "But… what does she like? Statues, artifacts, vintage jewelry, paintings…?"
"Now that you mention it," Cassian said, a note of realization in his voice. "She's particularly fond of paintings. She has three personal galleries in the mansion, filled with her favorites from all over the world."
"Oh, that's perfect!" Elara's face lit up. "Luckily, that antique expert from the gala, Inspector Evans, he gave me a premium AEA card in my name. As a token of respect. It gives me access to auctions and dealers worldwide. I can definitely use that to find something special."
"Good," Cassian said, a note of clear pride in his voice. He reached out and took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "I'm counting on you. As always."
The simple praise sent a warm flush of pleasure through her. She smiled, a sweet, unguarded smile, and squeezed his hand in return. She would never tire of hearing that from him.
---
Five days later, the penthouse felt cavernously empty without Cassian's commanding presence. Elara had thrown herself into work, but the silence between tasks was profound. She was lying idly on the living room sofa, a wave of nausea and fatigue washing over her—a feeling that had become frustratingly familiar over the past few weeks. She'd blamed her historically weak constitution, taking her prescribed medicines, but the morning sickness and relentless tiredness persisted. Right now, she felt lightheaded and utterly drained.
The doorbell chimed, a welcome interruption. She opened the door to find Sophie beaming on the other side, a large sunhat perched on her head. "Ready for our treasure hunt?" Sophie chirped.
Elara had called her, needing both the company and a second opinion. "More than ready," Elara said, her mood lifting instantly.
Their drive to the infamous antique district was filled with easy conversation, though Elara found herself leaning her head against the cool window, trying to quell her dizziness.
After a thirty-minute ride, their car pulled up in front of a renowned establishment. The sign above the door was elegantly understated: 'Dreams of the Fleeting Reality.'
They stepped inside. The air was cool and still, smelling of old wood and aged paper. Elara's eyes swept over the room, but her gaze snagged on a group of men standing near the back. Her blood ran cold.
Standing there was the stern-faced Mr. Sterling—the man who had given Aris the disastrous loan. The man who had lured Cassian into the deadly bet. The man who had ordered David's beating. And beside him was his son, Daniel, the same man who had been with Lena at Aris's flat.
Sophie, following her gaze, let out a small, sharp intake of breath. Her face instantly darkened with fear and recognition.
Mr. Sterling turned, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his face. "Well, well. If it isn't the new Mrs. Thorne and her little… shadow. Come to spend your husband's money?"
Sophie stepped forward, her hands balling into fists. "You have no right to speak to her like that!"
"I have every right," Sterling sneered. "This is a place of business, not a playground for children."
The argument that ensued was vicious in its politeness. Insults were woven into perfectly crafted sentences, each word a delicate, sharpened blade. It stretched on for twelve agonizing minutes, with Elara feeling progressively worse, her head throbbing.
"Enough!" Mr. Sterling finally snapped. "Instead of fighting like stray cats, let's have a civilized competition. Before your feminine hysterics damage the merchandise."
"What kind of competition?" Elara asked, her voice weaker than she intended.
"A simple wager. Whoever identifies the most expensive antique in this entire shop wins. The loser will purchase the entire contents of the shop for the winner and grant them one additional favor, no questions asked."
Elara's stomach churned. She felt unwell and sick, the room beginning to tilt. "I'm not interested in your games."
"Oh, but you must!" Sophie pleaded, grabbing her arm. "Elara, this is about our family's pride now! Yours and mine! You have to do this!"
Seeing the desperate hope in Sophie's eyes, Elara felt trapped. She took a shaky breath. "Fine. You go first."
Mr. Sterling laughed. "A foolish decision, but so be it. Daniel?"
His son, a smug look on his face, moved through the shop with an air of superiority. He returned carrying a large painting in an ornate gold frame, depicting an Egyptian pharaoh. "This 18th-dynasty funerary art is clearly the pinnacle of this collection," Daniel declared.
The shop owner, a nervous man, confirmed it. "He is correct. This is the most expensive piece here. Valued at three hundred million dollars."
Daniel laughed mockingly. "It seems the game is over before it began. You've lost, ladies. Perhaps you should stick to buying trinkets."
Ignoring him, Elara began to slowly walk through the aisles, her dizziness making it hard to focus. She stopped before a small, unassuming painting tucked away in a corner. It was a simple depiction of Lord Krishna playing his flute under a tree. Something about it called to her. She brought it back.
The shop owner appraised it. "A lovely piece, madam. Marble School, I believe. But not nearly as valuable. Perhaps fifty million at the very maximum."
Without hesitation, Elara took out her card. "I'll take it. Process the payment now."
Daniel and his father roared with laughter. "She can't accept defeat!" Daniel jeered. "She's just throwing a tantrum by buying whatever she can afford!"
Elara, feeling a terrible thirst, asked the shop owner for a glass of water. When it was brought to her, she didn't drink. Instead, in a move that shocked everyone, she flicked a few droplets of water onto the surface of the painting she had just bought.
"What are you doing!" the shop owner cried out.
"Have you lost your mind?" Daniel yelled. "Of course, we can't expect anything more from a country bumpkin like you!"
As the water beaded on the surface, Elara carefully blotted it with a corner of her shirt. A hidden layer beneath the top painting began to reveal itself. When she held it up again, the image had transformed. The colors were richer, the details far more intricate and ancient. It was clearly part of a legendary, lost series.
The shop owner gasped, rushing forward with a magnifying glass. "My God… I… I was wrong. This… this is one of the final paintings from the lost Marble series! I underestimated it completely! This piece is worth no less than five hundred million dollars!"
The silence in the shop was absolute.
Sophie burst into triumphant laughter. "She won! Elara, you won!"
Mr. Sterling's face was purple with rage. He turned on his son. "Useless!" he snarled, slapping Daniel across the back of the head before storming out of the shop.
Sophie turned to the humiliated Daniel. "Well? You heard the wager. You owe us a whole antique shop!"
"I know! I never go back on my promise," Daniel spat through gritted teeth. He barked at the owner, "Make a full inventory and send the bill to my personal mail! I will buy it and sign it over to them." He then fled, his tail between his legs.
"Big sis! You are the best!" Sophie squealed, hugging Elara tightly.
Elara managed a weak smile, clutching the painting. "Let's… let's just go, Sophie. I'm not feeling well."
"Of course! Let's go to my house for a sleepover! We can celebrate!"
Elara nodded, too tired to argue. As they stepped outside, the world suddenly swam before her eyes. The sunlight seemed too bright, the sounds too loud. A roaring filled her ears, and the pavement rushed up to meet her. The last thing she heard was Sophie's terrified voice screaming her name. "ELARA?!"
---
Elara drifted back to consciousness in a soft, lavishly pink bedroom. Her eyelids fluttered open to see two faces looking down at her: a frantic, tear-streaked Sophie and an elderly man in a white coat.
"What… what happened?" Elara whispered.
"You fainted, my dear," the doctor said gently.
Sophie burst forward, hugging her again, but this time with careful gentleness. "Sis! Oh, sis, congratulations!"
Elara was utterly confused. "Congratulations for what? For winning?"
The doctor gave a warm, experienced smile. "No, my dear. For the new life you're carrying. Congratulations, Miss Elara. You're pregnant."
Elara's hand drifted slowly to her abdomen. A profound, quiet warmth blossomed within her chest, a feeling entirely separate from the physical illness. She did not weep, but a soft, radiant smile graced her lips, her eyes shimmering with a complex, beautiful tapestry of emotions—awe, trepidation, and a fierce, burgeoning love. The game in the antique shop was forgotten. A far greater, more momentous reality had just begun..