Ingrid's mind went blank. The words didn't compute. For a terrifying
second, the elegant drawing room seemed to tilt on its axis.
Not his child?
The air left her lungs in a soft rush. "Whose child is it,
then?"
Silas gave a nonchalant shrug, a stark contrast to the nuclear bomb he'd
just dropped. "Who knows?"
"Elora Cohen is dead. The only one who might know is Steven
Cohen."
Ingrid's face darkened, her sharp, maternal gaze pinning him in place.
The casualness was a provocation. "What, on this green earth, is going on?
You will explain this to me. Clearly. And in detail." Her voice was low, a
controlled tremor of steel and ice. "Why did you suddenly decide to retest
the DNA? You were certain enough when you brought him home."
All these years without a whisper of doubt—this didn't just vanish.
Silas lowered his gaze, meticulously rolling up the sleeves of his black
shirt, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. The action was a deliberate
stall.
"Oh, nothing much," he said, his tone deceptively light.
"I just suddenly realised I'd become a daddy."
Suddenly become a father?
Ingrid stared, her mind struggling to keep up. Perhaps it was her age,
but tonight, everything felt sluggish, like wading through syrup. "What do
you mean?"
Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, Silas finally met her eyes.
A wry, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips at her uncharacteristic
slowness.
"Exactly what it sounds like. My wife is expecting. I'm going to be
a father. You," he said, the word landing with deliberate weight,
"are going to be a grandmother."
That's how I discovered my body was in perfect working order. The
subsequent investigation merely revealed that Julian was the spare part, not
the heir."
The pieces clicked into place with a devastating, final clang. Ingrid's
world reeled. Her eyes widened, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound
emerged.
"Ingrid?"
Silas's brow furrowed. Had he shocked her into a stroke?
He reached for her shoulder, but the contact was a catalyst.
In a flash of movement too fast to follow, Ingrid snatched the riding
crop from its stand. With a guttural cry of pure, maternal fury, she lashed it
savagely across his back.
THWACK.
"You ungrateful brat!" she seethed, all composure gone.
"You think you're so clever now? That you can hide something this big from
me? You're like a locked safe! I raised you better than this! What a
disappointment!"
THWACK. THWACK.
The blows fell fast and hard, landing on his arms as he raised them to
shield himself.
"Easy there," he sidestepped, a flicker of genuine alarm in
his eyes. "Let's talk this through. Like civilised people."
Seeing him dodge fanned the flames of her rage. The worry she'd bottled
up for years, the fear for this stubborn boy-turned-man, exploded out of her.
She swung again, chasing him.
Silas, for all his power and prestige, became a teenage boy again under
his aunt's wrath. He dodged left and right with a flustered agility, making a
strategic retreat towards the doorway.
"Let's talk when you've calmed down!" he called over his
shoulder, yanking the door open.
"Don't you run from me! Stop right there, you little rascal!"
Ingrid thundered, pursuing him with a vitality that defied her years.
The scene descended into pure chaos, a whirlwind of flying silk and
furious shouts that echoed from the second floor to the grand foyer.
Upstairs, Arthur, who had been patiently guiding Annabelle through her
history lesson, froze. Father and daughter exchanged a wide-eyed glance before
rushing out and down the staircase.
In the ground-floor living room, servants cowered, too terrified to
intervene. The butler, a model of efficiency, had already dispatched a maid to
fetch Elara from next door.
"Ingrid—" Silas halted at the foot of the stairs with a heavy
sigh, turning to face his aunt, who stood arms akimbo, chest heaving, the
riding crop still clutched in her white-knuckled hand.
He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Could we perhaps
discuss this without resorting to violence? We're not savages."
"Indeed," Arthur's voice boomed as he stepped forward, placing
a steadying hand on his wife's back. He fixed Silas with a stern, paternal
glare. "What business is so grave it cannot be settled with words? Must
you always provoke your aunt to this state?"
Silas's expression was the picture of wounded innocence. "We were
having a perfectly civil conversation. I had no idea she'd fly off the
handle."
It was true, in his rebellious teens, he'd taken his beatings without
flinching. But now… now he had a wife. A younger wife he'd worked hard to
appear mature and steady in front of. Being whipped like a disobedient hound in
front of her was… unthinkable.
"Hmph." Seeing his act, Ingrid pointed the crop at him like a
royal sceptre of condemnation before turning to Arthur. "Look at this fine
nephew you've raised! His wife is with child, Arthur. With child! And he didn't
see fit to tell us. He clearly holds us in no regard!" She was seething,
the betrayal over the hidden pregnancy eclipsing even the Julian bombshell for
the moment.
"Does he, or does he not, deserve this beating?!"
She took a sharp breath, her senses returning. "Butler! Dismiss
everyone! You know the rules of this house. You know what to hear and what to
forget. Keep your tongues behind your teeth, or you'll regret it when the
consequences come knocking!"
The butler bowed deeply. "Understood, Mrs. Winslow." The
servants scattered like leaves in a storm, leaving the family alone in the
tense silence.
Arthur adjusted his black-rimmed spectacles, his hand trembling
slightly. "My dear… did you just say… his wife is expecting?"
Ingrid snorted coldly, flinging the riding crop toward Silas. It
clattered to the marble floor. "Ask the genius yourself."
Silas nudged the crop away with his shoe. Arthur's expression hardened
into one of pure patriarch. "When did this happen? When did Elara become
pregnant?"
"The baby is two months along," Silas replied, pinching the
bridge of his nose. Seeing a path to calm the storm, he decided on full
disclosure. "The first trimester is critical. Elly is carrying twins. The
situation is delicate. Until the mess with Julian is resolved, the fewer people
who know, the safer it is for her."
A sharp, collective intake of breath sucked all the air from the room.
"...Twins?" Ingrid whispered, her grip on Arthur's arm
tightening like a vice.
She had blocked out everything else. Only that one, glorious word
remained. Twins.
Even little Annabelle stared, her sparkling eyes wide with awe, looking
from her uncle to where Elara would be.
Silas allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated pride. He relaxed
his stance, hands sliding back into his pockets, a smug, almost boyish grin
tugging at his lips.
"Ahem."
Elara chose that moment to hurry in, her entrance halting at the scene.
She saw Silas's poorly concealed smirk, saw the stunned, stirred expressions on
Arthur's, Ingrid's, and Annabelle's faces.
Her confused gaze found his. "Silas? What's happening?"
Before he could answer, Ingrid released Arthur and surged forward,
enveloping Elara in a fierce, perfumed embrace.
"My good girl. My dear, dear girl," Ingrid's voice trembled,
thick with unshed tears. "You are a blessing to this family. A true
blessing."
"Ingrid?" Elara managed, her muffled question aimed at Silas
over Ingrid's shoulder.
His resigned look spoke volumes. "Ingrid knows about the
twins."
As if struck by a new thought, Ingrid pulled back, her hands firm on
Elara's shoulders. Her eyes, shining with emotion, dropped to Elara's
still-flat stomach.
"Good," she uttered, the word heavy with feeling. "Good.
Good."
"Elly, you've been through too much. That good-for-nothing only
just told us. What does a clumsy man like him know about caring for a pregnant
woman? He has no idea the strain you're under!"
"Ingrid, I'm not wronged at all," Elara smiled softly, her
eyes drifting to the angry red welts on Silas's forearms. Her heart gave a
little squeeze. "Silas has been wonderfully attentive. To me and the
babies. Please don't worry, and please don't blame him."
"Don't speak for him. He deserves far worse than a beating."
Ingrid guided Elara to the plush sofa as if she were made of the most
delicate porcelain. Annabelle immediately scrambled up beside her, peering at
Elara's belly with rapt fascination.
Arthur, the elder gentleman, took a seat on the adjacent sofa, his gaze
soft as he watched the three of them.
Silas, seeing his wife effectively captured, moved to sit beside her.
"You! Stand!" Ingrid's voice cracked like a whip. "I am
not finished with you."
"Fine. I'll stand." Silas let out a long-suffering sigh,
straightened up, and assumed a relaxed stance, hands in pockets. "Ask
away. What other secrets would you like to uncover?"
Ingrid, still holding Elara's hand, fixed him with an arctic glare.
"You said the babies are two months along. Still in the critical
period."
Silas nodded. Elara watched, curious about the line of questioning.
"Then why," Ingrid's voice dropped to a dangerous, knowing
purr, "are you still sharing a bed with my Elly?"
She let the question hang in the air, her eyes flashing with the memory
of the oyster stew she'd forced on him at dinner.
"You are not a hormone-addled boy. You lack the most basic
restraint. Had I known, would I have been plying you with tonics?"
"And?" Silas narrowed his eyes, a familiar sense of dread
coiling in his gut.
"And therefore," Ingrid announced, her voice ringing with
finality, "I am informing you that from this evening onward, Elly will be
moving into our wing. The matter of her return to your rooms will be revisited
only after three months have safely passed."
She looked him dead in the eye, a queen issuing an unappealable decree.
"You are forbidden to raise any objections."
The door to his own wife's bed had just been slammed, bolted, and
barricaded by his aunt. And Silas knew, with a sinking heart, that he had
absolutely no one to blame but himself.