The phone rang until the final moment, a desperate, persistent sound in
the oppressive silence of the chapel before it was finally answered.
"You told me Julian was Elora's son! My own flesh and blood! Why
does the test say otherwise? How dare you lie to me!" The Old Lady's voice
was a venomous hiss, her face a grotesque mask of fury as she clutched the
phone.
A beat of heavy silence was broken by a cold, electronically distorted
female voice. "Believe what you will. Have you not seen the birthmark on
his back? Was it not identical to Lysander's? After over twenty years, why
doubt me now?"
In the dim, flickering candlelight, the Old Lady's—Cecilia's—mind was
thrown back to a different time. A time of passion and rebellion, of a secret,
all-consuming love for Lysander Cohen. But that love was shattered when she was
brutally claimed by Lord Thorne and forced into a political marriage as his
second wife. Pregnant with Lysander's child, she was torn from him, leaving him
in bitter misunderstanding. She was forced to give their daughter, Seraphina,
away to the Cohen family to be raised in secret. Later, in her cold marriage,
she bore Lord Thorne a son: Alistair, Silas's father.
The memory of the small, blue, crescent-shaped birthmark on Lysander's
shoulder was seared into her mind. She had seen its twin on Julian's back. It
was the proof she had clung to.
"And Elora? Seraphina's daughter? She must have had it too!"
she argued, her voice trembling.
"I had a DNA test done! A birthmark can be faked! Do you take me
for a fool?" she snarled, her cunning resurfacing.
It was years ago, after Silas brought the child home, that this
mysterious caller had contacted her. They claimed the baby was Elora's, that
the entire Cohen line had been wiped out in a fire—a tragedy orchestrated by
her own grandson, Silas. They said that with Silas believed to be infertile
after his accident, this child, her own great-grandson, was the last heir to
the Thorne and Winslow empires. They sent her the old, yellowed love letters
she had written to Lysander—letters she thought were lost forever—as proof.
She had believed. She had nurtured Julian, seeing in him the last living
piece of Lysander and the daughter she lost. She had poured all her twisted
love and bitter vengeance into him, planning for the day he would inherit
everything. And in her heart, a festering hatred for Silas had taken root.
Now, to be told it was all a lie... that the child she had devoted
herself to was a counterfeit... it was unthinkable.
"Hmph! And how do you know your test results aren't the
forgery?" the electronic voice retorted coldly.
The words struck a chord. Of course. The doctor was Silas's man. He
controlled the narrative.
"He suspects me," she whispered, the realisation dawning with
chilling clarity. "That's why he fabricated the report. He's forcing
Julian to take the Cohen name, to sever all ties. Now that Elara is carrying
his child, he has no more use for my Julian."
"Pregnant?" The electronic voice shifted, dropping to an
eerie, deadly calm.
"Yes, pregnant!" the Old Lady spat, impatient. "Forget
her! The problem is Julian! All my plans... decades of work... ruined!"
Heavy, distorted breathing was the only response for a long moment.
"Since your secret will soon be exposed, you have two choices. Join your
Lysander in death sooner... or lie low and wait."
"Lie low?" Cecilia shrieked, her voice cracking. "How
much time do you think I have left? How long must I wait?"
"Then go and die." The reply was utterly devoid of emotion, a
flat, digital death sentence. "Once your sordid affairs are laid bare, you
won't have the face to live on anyway."
"You—!" Rage choked her, making her chest heave. "I
called you to find a way to keep Julian in the Thorne family! To claim his
birthright! Everything the Thornes have is owed to me! It is my compensation
for Lysander! For Seraphina!"
"There is nothing to be done. Do not concern yourself with Julian
further. I have my own plans. Cease all contact. Permanently. You know what you
must do."
The line went dead with a final, hollow click.
"Wait! Explain yourself! What do you mean?!" she cried into
the void, but only silence answered. She was a spent pawn, discarded.
She slumped on the hard kneeler, the fight draining from her, leaving a
husk aged a decade in minutes. A bitter, broken sound escaped her lips—part
sob, part crazed laugh. All her schemes, her entire life's design, had crumbled
to dust.
Her gaze lifted, drawn to the chapel's centrepiece. There, a life-sized
statue of the Archangel Michael, carved from cold, grey-white marble, stood in
eternal judgment. He was not a figure of mercy, but of wrath; a celestial
warrior with wings partially unfurled, his face a mask of pitiless condemnation.
His silver sword was forever poised, driven downward toward the throat of a
grotesque demon writhing beneath his feet.
In that moment, Cecilia Thorne saw not a holy warrior, but a mirror of
her own damnation. The archangel's stern eyes saw every one of her sins. The
demon, crushed and screaming, was her own fate.
They all wanted her dead, did they?
A strange, resolute calm settled over her. Her gnarled hands, resting on
the prayer rail, clenched into white-knuckled fists. Beneath her clouded,
bloodshot eyes, a hard, desperate glint ignited.
Outside the chapel door, a slender figure leaned against the cold stone,
having listened to the entire, frantic conversation. He lowered his gaze, a
complex mix of pity and cold satisfaction in his eyes before melting back into
the shadows.
When Silas returned to the hospital room a little after eight, Chloe had
already left.
He saw the relaxed smile on Elara's face and felt a wave of relief. She
had enjoyed her friend's company.
Settling beside her, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
His question, when it came, was deceptively casual.
"Did Ethan come to see you today?"