A terrifying possibility solidified in Silas's mind, turning his eyes as
dark and unsettled as spilled ink.
If this old woman had known all along, if she had been in league with
Elora and Seraphina Cohen...
Would Elora have ever truly loved him? Or was her obsession, the stolen
sperm, the entire twisted scheme, all orchestrated by the crone before him?
And the most critical, damning question of all...
"Speak!" The command ripped from him, his overwhelming
presence sucking the air from the room.
The old woman shrank back in her chair, her breath catching. Her lips
trembled. "I... I only learned the truth after the Cohen family had
already fled abroad."
It was only when a desperate Seraphina had sought her help that she
discovered the girl her grandson had once brought home—Elora—was the daughter
she had been forced to abandon.
Silas's lips curved into a mocking, bitter smile. "And you used the
Thorne family's fortune to bankroll the Cohens in their exile, didn't
you?"
Her silence was confirmation. There was no remorse on her gaunt face,
only a stubborn, unrepentant pride.
"You went to such extraordinary lengths for your lover and his
line," Silas said, his voice dropping to an arctic chill. "Conspiring
to have his blood inherit everything that belonged to the Thorne name. How can
you sit there without a shred of shame?"
"Every man for himself," she retorted, lifting her jaw in a
final, defiant gesture. "The world destroys the weak. There's nothing more
to explain. I admit to it all. So, kill me. Flay me alive. The choice is
yours."
Her tone was dripping with contempt, as if she believed he still lacked
the nerve to touch her.
The sheer audacity was breathtaking.
Elara stepped forward, a deceptively gentle smile on her lips. "Oh,
there's no need to be in such a hurry to die. For the crime of murdering two
people, the state will be happy to host you for your 'twilight years.' With
your robust health, you should be able to enjoy prison labour well past a
hundred. I hear they have... special accommodations for the elderly."
The old woman visibly recoiled. She pictured the coarse uniforms, the
filthy cells, the rough, common women who would mock and bully her. A life of
refined dignity ending in such squalor...
"You wouldn't dare!" she hissed, malice flashing in her eyes.
"Why wouldn't I?" Elara's delicate brows arched. "You
dared to take lives. A prison sentence is merely the consequence you've
earned."
This woman, who had revelled in a lifetime of luxury and reverence,
deserved more than a quick death. She needed to taste the ashes of her own
ruin.
Choked with rage, the old woman could only grip the table, her hands
trembling violently.
"One final question," Silas said, his voice so cold it seemed
to frost the air. For the first time in his life, he felt a loathing so
profound he could barely stand to look at her.
"If Elora is Seraphina's daughter—your granddaughter—then my
paternity test with Julian should have shown some relation. Yet it showed none.
But you share his blood. Explain this to me."
The moment the words left his mouth, the old lady's pupils contracted to
pinpricks. Her knuckles turned bone-white where she gripped the wood.
Elara gasped softly as the horrifying implication dawned on her.
It could only mean one thing...
Silas's father, Alistair, was not this woman's biological son.
Silas guided a stunned Elara from the chapel, the heavy door groaning
shut behind them. Through the narrowing crack, she caught one last glimpse of
the scene inside: the old woman, slumped in her dark blue robes under the
feeble light, her head bowed. A faint, lurid red mark, like a phantom noose,
was visible around her neck.
Outside, the gloomy drizzle intensified. A fork of lightning split the
sky, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that seemed to explode directly
over the chapel's roof, as if the heavens themselves were aiming for it.
Startled, Elara pressed closer to Silas's side. He tightened his arm
around her, leaning down to press a firm kiss to her temple.
"Don't be afraid," he murmured, his voice rough with
suppressed emotion.
Her heart ached for him. She could feel the immense weight bearing down
on him, a storm of fury and betrayal held in check by sheer will. He had every
reason to strangle the old woman with his bare hands, yet he hadn't.
Seeing him like this, so controlled yet so wounded, shattered her heart.
He had always been her invincible fortress, but even the strongest walls needed
someone to care for the man within.
"With you here, I'm not afraid," she whispered, wrapping her
arms around his waist and looking up at him with a soft, crinkling-eyed smile.
"Darling, look—even the heavens are outraged by her sins. Let's not dirty
our hands. She's not worth it."
Silas looked down into her gentle face, at the worry shimmering in her
eyes. The tightness in his chest eased a fraction. He let out a long, heavy
breath, his lips curving into a faint, weary smile.
"Don't worry. I know my limits. I won't intervene. Her retribution
will find her soon enough."
There was a finality in his tone that Elara noted but didn't question.
Deep in the night, Elara was jolted awake by frantic, delirious screams
echoing from the courtyard below.
She opened her eyes to find Silas standing like a sentinel at the
window, his broad back to her, silhouetted against the night. He was watching
something intently, his entire posture radiating a dark, brooding intensity.
She slipped out of bed and padded softly across the thick carpet to his side.
Following his gaze, she saw several bodyguards in the rear garden,
struggling to restrain a wild-eyed Old Lady Thorne. Her hair was a dishevelled
mess, her robes askew as she shrieked about ghosts, clawing at the air,
claiming the spirits of the dead had come for her. The guards were forcibly
marching her back toward the secluded courtyard.
Nearby servants huddled together, their faces pale with fear. Ghosts? In
the Thorne ancestral home? Was it the wrath of the ancestors, finally
descending upon the matriarch?
"Did the noise wake you?" Silas asked, his voice calm as he
turned and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Mm," Elara nodded, her wide eyes still fixed on him.
"Was she... possessed?"
But demons only truly existed in the human heart.
Silas's reply was serene. "If one has a clear conscience, why fear
the demons at the door?"
"It's true, then," Elara echoed. "She must have dreamed
of her victims coming to collect their debt."
A soft smile touched Silas's lips at her unwavering support. He drew her
close and guided her back to bed. "Sleep. Don't let her madness disturb
your rest."
Curled against his shoulder under the covers, Elara closed her eyes and
murmured, "Silas... will you tell Ingrid and Arthur? About your father's
true origins?"
In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Silas's gaze was fixed on the
ceiling. "I will. They have the right to know."
Elara could never have predicted that the next morning, she would be
woken by the news.
The Old Lady Thorne had hanged herself.
She felt a jolt, but no real surprise.
The maid who brought the morning meal had been the one to find her. She
had pushed open the door to the chapel to see the old woman's stiff, lifeless
body hanging from a beam, swaying gently in the morning draft. The maid's
piercing scream had echoed through the entire estate, a fitting epitaph for a
life of monstrous deceit.
A terrifying possibility solidified in Silas's mind, turning his eyes as
dark and unsettled as spilled ink.
If this old woman had known all along, if she had been in league with
Elora and Seraphina Cohen...
Would Elora have ever truly loved him? Or was her obsession, the stolen
sperm, the entire twisted scheme, all orchestrated by the crone before him?
And the most critical, damning question of all...
"Speak!" The command ripped from him, his overwhelming
presence sucking the air from the room.
The old woman shrank back in her chair, her breath catching. Her lips
trembled. "I... I only learned the truth after the Cohen family had
already fled abroad."
It was only when a desperate Seraphina had sought her help that she
discovered the girl her grandson had once brought home—Elora—was the daughter
she had been forced to abandon.
Silas's lips curved into a mocking, bitter smile. "And you used the
Thorne family's fortune to bankroll the Cohens in their exile, didn't
you?"
Her silence was confirmation. There was no remorse on her gaunt face,
only a stubborn, unrepentant pride.
"You went to such extraordinary lengths for your lover and his
line," Silas said, his voice dropping to an arctic chill. "Conspiring
to have his blood inherit everything that belonged to the Thorne name. How can
you sit there without a shred of shame?"
"Every man for himself," she retorted, lifting her jaw in a
final, defiant gesture. "The world destroys the weak. There's nothing more
to explain. I admit to it all. So, kill me. Flay me alive. The choice is
yours."
Her tone was dripping with contempt, as if she believed he still lacked
the nerve to touch her.
The sheer audacity was breathtaking.
Elara stepped forward, a deceptively gentle smile on her lips. "Oh,
there's no need to be in such a hurry to die. For the crime of murdering two
people, the state will be happy to host you for your 'twilight years.' With
your robust health, you should be able to enjoy prison labour well past a
hundred. I hear they have... special accommodations for the elderly."
The old woman visibly recoiled. She pictured the coarse uniforms, the
filthy cells, the rough, common women who would mock and bully her. A life of
refined dignity ending in such squalor...
"You wouldn't dare!" she hissed, malice flashing in her eyes.
"Why wouldn't I?" Elara's delicate brows arched. "You
dared to take lives. A prison sentence is merely the consequence you've
earned."
This woman, who had revelled in a lifetime of luxury and reverence,
deserved more than a quick death. She needed to taste the ashes of her own
ruin.
Choked with rage, the old woman could only grip the table, her hands
trembling violently.
"One final question," Silas said, his voice so cold it seemed
to frost the air. For the first time in his life, he felt a loathing so
profound he could barely stand to look at her.
"If Elora is Seraphina's daughter—your granddaughter—then my
paternity test with Julian should have shown some relation. Yet it showed none.
But you share his blood. Explain this to me."
The moment the words left his mouth, the old lady's pupils contracted to
pinpricks. Her knuckles turned bone-white where she gripped the wood.
Elara gasped softly as the horrifying implication dawned on her.
It could only mean one thing...
Silas's father, Alistair, was not this woman's biological son.
Silas guided a stunned Elara from the chapel, the heavy door groaning
shut behind them. Through the narrowing crack, she caught one last glimpse of
the scene inside: the old woman, slumped in her dark blue robes under the
feeble light, her head bowed. A faint, lurid red mark, like a phantom noose,
was visible around her neck.
Outside, the gloomy drizzle intensified. A fork of lightning split the
sky, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that seemed to explode directly
over the chapel's roof, as if the heavens themselves were aiming for it.
Startled, Elara pressed closer to Silas's side. He tightened his arm
around her, leaning down to press a firm kiss to her temple.
"Don't be afraid," he murmured, his voice rough with
suppressed emotion.
Her heart ached for him. She could feel the immense weight bearing down
on him, a storm of fury and betrayal held in check by sheer will. He had every
reason to strangle the old woman with his bare hands, yet he hadn't.
Seeing him like this, so controlled yet so wounded, shattered her heart.
He had always been her invincible fortress, but even the strongest walls needed
someone to care for the man within.
"With you here, I'm not afraid," she whispered, wrapping her
arms around his waist and looking up at him with a soft, crinkling-eyed smile.
"Darling, look—even the heavens are outraged by her sins. Let's not dirty
our hands. She's not worth it."
Silas looked down into her gentle face, at the worry shimmering in her
eyes. The tightness in his chest eased a fraction. He let out a long, heavy
breath, his lips curving into a faint, weary smile.
"Don't worry. I know my limits. I won't intervene. Her retribution
will find her soon enough."
There was a finality in his tone that Elara noted but didn't question.
Deep in the night, Elara was jolted awake by frantic, delirious screams
echoing from the courtyard below.
She opened her eyes to find Silas standing like a sentinel at the
window, his broad back to her, silhouetted against the night. He was watching
something intently, his entire posture radiating a dark, brooding intensity.
She slipped out of bed and padded softly across the thick carpet to his side.
Following his gaze, she saw several bodyguards in the rear garden,
struggling to restrain a wild-eyed Old Lady Thorne. Her hair was a dishevelled
mess, her robes askew as she shrieked about ghosts, clawing at the air,
claiming the spirits of the dead had come for her. The guards were forcibly
marching her back toward the secluded courtyard.
Nearby servants huddled together, their faces pale with fear. Ghosts? In
the Thorne ancestral home? Was it the wrath of the ancestors, finally
descending upon the matriarch?
"Did the noise wake you?" Silas asked, his voice calm as he
turned and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Mm," Elara nodded, her wide eyes still fixed on him.
"Was she... possessed?"
But demons only truly existed in the human heart.
Silas's reply was serene. "If one has a clear conscience, why fear
the demons at the door?"
"It's true, then," Elara echoed. "She must have dreamed
of her victims coming to collect their debt."
A soft smile touched Silas's lips at her unwavering support. He drew her
close and guided her back to bed. "Sleep. Don't let her madness disturb
your rest."
Curled against his shoulder under the covers, Elara closed her eyes and
murmured, "Silas... will you tell Ingrid and Arthur? About your father's
true origins?"
In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Silas's gaze was fixed on the
ceiling. "I will. They have the right to know."
Elara could never have predicted that the next morning, she would be
woken by the news.
The Old Lady Thorne had hanged herself.
She felt a jolt, but no real surprise.
The maid who brought the morning meal had been the one to find her. She
had pushed open the door to the chapel to see the old woman's stiff, lifeless
body hanging from a beam, swaying gently in the morning draft. The maid's
piercing scream had echoed through the entire estate, a fitting epitaph for a
life of monstrous deceit.