The drawing room of the Thorne ancestral home was steeped in
a tense quiet, broken only by the soft clink of porcelain as Ingrid sipped her
tea. She had just arrived from Oakhaven, the weariness of travel etched on her
face, but her eyes were sharp and alert.
Elara was about to speak when a maid scurried in, bowing her
head nervously.
"Madam… Julian is at the gate. He wishes to pay his final
respects to the matriarch and… inquire about the circumstances of her passing."
The air in the room grew instantly colder. The name 'Julian'
hung between them like a bad omen. Every servant knew the fallen 'heir' was now
nothing but an adopted son who had been cast out, his very name a taboo.
Elara's expression iced over. Inquire about her condition?
She's in a fucking urn, that's her condition. She knew his real motive was to
sniff around for a will, for any scrap of leverage he could find.
"We are grieving and busy with arrangements," Elara stated,
her voice devoid of all warmth. "If he wishes to pay his respects, he can do so
with everyone else at the funeral. We are not receiving visitors today."
The maid bobbed another curtsy and fled, relieved to be away
from the chilling dismissal.
As the door closed, Ingrid let out a derisive snort. "Well,
at least the old hag did one thing right before she swung from the rafters—she
didn't leave a will for that little viper."
She took a savage sip of her tea. "Not that it would have
mattered. I'd have seen him in hell before he got a single penny. The audacity
of him showing his face here."
Elara merely nodded, her gaze distant. It wasn't that the
matriarch had a sudden attack of conscience. In her final, terror-stricken
hours, haunted by the ghosts of her own making, Julian had been the last thing
on her mind. She had been too busy screaming at phantoms to remember the boy
she once claimed to love.
Outside the imposing Thorne gates, Julian received the
message from the terrified maid. He opened his mouth to protest, but the
servant had already scuttled back inside, the heavy side door slamming shut
with a final, resonant thud that felt like a physical blow.
He stared at the sealed door, his jaw clenched so tight it
ached. A wave of bitter fury washed over his gaunt features.
Sycophants. Every last one of them.
Since his fall from grace, he had become an expert in
reading the faces of those who once grovelled at his feet. Their false
sympathy, their thinly veiled contempt… he saw it all.
But he refused to believe the official story. A sudden
illness? A peaceful passing? It was a lie.
The old woman hadn't died. She'd been murdered. Driven to
her death by the very people now barring him from entering. And he would prove
it.
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, the air was thick with the
scent of medicine and revelation. Arthur sat propped against the headboard, his
face pale, but his eyes clear. He accepted the cup of black tea from Ingrid,
his hand trembling slightly.
Silas stood by the window, his broad back to them, a
silhouette of contained power and simmering rage.
"Just say it, Silas," Ingrid urged, her voice soft but firm.
"We can bear the truth. Whatever it is."
Silas turned slowly. The light from the window carved his
stern features into a mask of grim finality.
"My father, Alistair… was not her biological son."
The statement landed like a stone in still water.
"Lord Thorne brought him home from the outside. He was
another woman's child."
Arthur and Ingrid exchanged a look of stunned comprehension,
followed by a wave of bitter, painful clarity. So that's it.
"I… I see," Arthur breathed out, a shaky hand coming to his
chest. "All those years… the pressure, the expectations… and then the betrayal.
She could orchestrate the death of a son who wasn't even hers without a second
thought."
Ingrid gripped his hand, her heart aching for him. "You
should be glad that vicious creature wasn't your real grandmother. Knowing
this… it's a liberation, Silas. We should be celebrating this truth."
A grim, humourless smile touched Silas's lips. "Indeed."
"If I had known sooner…" Arthur began, his voice hoarse with
a grief decades old. "I would have had her locked away years ago. She murdered
Alistair and Eleanor. She poisoned the old master. All for a bloodline that was
never hers."
A new, chilling question dawned on Arthur. "The old lady was
pregnant. If Alistair was the child the old master brought in… then what
happened to her child?"
"It was stillborn," Silas answered, his tone flat and cold.
"A dead infant. The old master, fearing she couldn't handle the loss, swapped
his illegitimate son with the corpse. Only he and the attending doctor ever
knew the truth."
The silence that followed was profound. An illegitimate
heir. A decades-long lie.
"How did she find out?" Ingrid whispered, her mind reeling.
"My father's birth mother… the woman who thought her child
had died," Silas explained, a flicker of pity in his eyes. "The grief broke
her. She became unstable, came to the estate demanding answers, demanding
compensation from Lord Thorne."
He paused, the weight of the past pressing down on him. "The
matriarch's men intercepted her. That's how she discovered her husband had a
lover on the outside, a woman who had conceived a child at the same time she
did."
"She flew into a rage. Ordered the woman to be taken away.
In the struggle… she was pushed into the path of an oncoming vehicle."
A choked sound escaped Arthur. He closed his eyes, as if to
block out the horrific image. "And then?" he rasped.
"The matriarch confronted the old man. She sensed he was
lying, so she secretly arranged for a DNA test. When the results confirmed it,
she never spoke of it again. She needed a 'blood' son to secure her power. So
she played the part, all while nurturing her hatred for the boy who had
replaced her own dead child."
Silas let the awful truth hang in the air for a moment
before his voice softened, just a fraction. "I've sent men to find where my
grandmother… my real grandmother… is buried."
The correction was significant. She was a victim, too. A
pitiable soul lost to the Thorne family's darkness.
"Good," Arthur murmured, his eyes glistening. "That's good."
Ingrid leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him, her
touch a silent vow. "When you find her, we will all go. Our entire family will
pay our respects to your grandmother."
Silas gave a single, slow nod, turning back to the window.
He exhaled a long, heavy breath, as if trying to expel the poison of the past.
The day of the funeral dawned grey and forbidding, the sun a
forgotten memory behind a blanket of oppressive clouds. A chill wind whipped
through the mourners gathered at the memorial hall, a fitting atmosphere for
the Thorne family's final farewell.
Ashbourne's elite were all in attendance, a sea of black and
whispered speculation. Before the memorial altar, younger members of the Thorne
collateral branches stood, while the more established ones jockeyed for
position, subtly trying to assist Silas and Elara in receiving guests—a
transparent attempt to curry favour.
Ingrid and Arthur Winslow, as the closest of family friends,
moved with a quiet dignity, their presence a silent anchor.
All eyes, however, kept drifting to Silas and his wife. The
notoriously private titan of industry, now revealed to be married to the
stunningly beautiful Elara Hayes. She stood beside him in an elegant, black
Hepburn-style dress, her poise flawless, her youth and luminescent beauty a
stark contrast to the grim occasion. Many of the male guests couldn't help but
think that even a man like Silas Thorne was, in the end, just a man—susceptible
to the charm of a beautiful young wife.
The quiet murmurs were suddenly cut short as Julian arrived.
He walked in, his shoulders set with purpose, his face a
mask of grief. And he wasn't alone.
Beside him was a woman, her silhouette slender and graceful
in a form-fitting black gown. Large, dark sunglasses obscured half her face,
but what was visible—a high, straight nose and a pair of perfectly sculpted,
crimson lips—hinted at a devastating beauty. She was an enigma, and her
presence at Julian's side sent a fresh wave of whispers through the crowd.
Julian ignored them all. He strode directly to Silas and
gave a deep, formal bow. Then, turning to the matriarch's portrait and the
ornate coffin behind it, he fell to his knees.
"Great-grandmother," he cried out, his voice cracking with
what sounded like genuine anguish. "I'm so sorry! I came too late… I couldn't
see you one last time. How could you leave us so suddenly…?"
His restrained sobs were a masterclass in performance,
designed to tug at every heartstring.
"Granny, Julian's come to see you…"
With that, he staggered to his feet and threw himself
dramatically onto the polished surface of the closed coffin, weeping over the
ornate urn placed atop it.
From his post nearby, Ethan struggled to keep a straight
face.
Oh, you poor, deluded fool, he thought, a cynical twist to
his lips. If only you knew that urn is filled with sand and dog shit.
He and Ben had spent half the night tracking down a
half-starved stray, its ribs showing, just to dispose of the old woman's
remains. Even the dog had been reluctant.