The old woman's cremation was arranged with cold, brutal
efficiency. Silas, Ingrid, and Arthur were conspicuously absent, their duties
of filial piety delegated to Silas's stoic assistant, Ethan.
When the deed was done, Ethan stood before Silas, his voice
a low, respectful murmur. "Sir, the cremation is complete. The staff at the
funeral home are inquiring about the final arrangements for the ashes. And the
public notice… shall we announce a service?"
Silas, silhouetted against the vast window of the study,
didn't turn. The morning light did nothing to soften the sharp, unforgiving
lines of his profile. A moment of heavy silence stretched before his voice cut
through it, cold and sharp as shattering glass.
"Issue the notice. My grandmother passed peacefully in her
sleep after a long, private illness. The funeral will be held in three days."
Another pause, more menacing than the first. "As for the
ashes," he finally said, turning a gaze so icy it could freeze hell itself upon
Ethan, "take them to the kennels. Scatter them to the dogs."
A faint, almost imperceptible shiver went through Ethan, but
years of training kept his expression neutral. "Understood, Sir." He gave a
curt nod and exited, leaving the chilling order hanging in the air.
Elara, who had been observing from a plush armchair, said
nothing. She merely watched her husband, her heart a tumultuous sea of
understanding and a flicker of primal fear. This was the ruthlessness that had
built an empire, a side of him she rarely saw so nakedly displayed.
Outside, the storm had passed, but a new, more oppressive
one had settled over the Thorne manor. The air was thick with unspoken terror.
The servants moved like ghosts, their whispers dead, their eyes wide with fear.
The matriarch's frantic cries about vengeful spirits the night before, followed
by her sudden, gruesome death by hanging… it was a recipe for nightmares. And
the masters' grim, unyielding demeanour confirmed that something was deeply,
horribly wrong.
Their fears were confirmed when the butler summoned everyone
to the main hall. There, seated like twin monarchs on thrones of dark mahogany,
were Silas and Elara. A phalanx of unsmiling bodyguards blocked the exits,
their arms crossed, making it clear that no one was leaving until this was
over.
Elara's voice, cool and resonant, broke the terrified
silence. She was dressed in a simple, elegant black dress, her hair pulled back
severely, highlighting the pale, solemn beauty of her face.
"By now, you all know of the matriarch's passing." Her gaze
swept over the crowd, making every servant feel seen and weighed. "Her health
had been declining for some time. Last night, she suffered a severe episode,
her mind… plagued by phantoms. When her senses briefly returned, the weight of
her suffering became too much to bear. She chose to end her own pain, to no
longer be a burden to this family or to those who cared for her so devotedly."
She paused, letting the 'official' story sink in. Her tone
softened, a masterful blend of grace and steel.
"I know many of you cared for her deeply. On behalf of the
Thorne family, I thank you for your loyalty and service. She often spoke of her
appreciation for your diligence."
Her voice hardened slightly, the steel now glinting through.
"Now that she has found peace, it is time for us to find ours in continuing our
duties. However… we understand that some may find the atmosphere of this house
too heavy after such a tragedy. If any of you wish to leave the Thorne family's
employ following the matriarch's funeral, you may step forward now. You will be
granted a generous severance package to aid your transition."
The message was crystal clear: Keep your mouths shut, do
your jobs, and you will be rewarded. Cause trouble, and you're out.
No one moved. No one even breathed too loudly. Working for
the Thornes came with privileges and pay that were the envy of every servant in
Ashbourne. To speak up now was to admit you couldn't be trusted. And the
consequences of that… no one dared imagine. The Master's silent, brooding
presence in the room was a threat more potent than any shouted command.
Seeing their frozen obedience, Elara allowed a small,
gracious smile to touch her lips. "Your loyalty has not gone unnoticed. From
this month forward, all staff will receive double their wages. Your year-end
bonus will also be doubled."
The relief was palpable. A wave of murmured gratitude
rippled through the hall. "Thank you, Madam! We will not let you or the Master
down!"
"Excellent," Elara said, her smile not quite reaching her
eyes. "The matriarch's funeral will bring many relatives from the family's…
other branches. Emotions may run high. We are counting on you all to be the
very picture of discretion and efficiency in the days to come."
"Yes, Madam!"
As the hall emptied, the rigid posture Elara had maintained
finally broke. She slumped slightly, a dull ache spreading across her lower
back.
A large, warm hand settled on the small of her back, his
fingers gently kneading the tension away. "You were magnificent, Elly," Silas's
voice was a low, intimate rumble, stripped of its earlier ice.
Elara turned to meet his gaze, her own eyes soft. "It's my
job, isn't it? With great honour comes great responsibility." She reached up
and touched his cheek. "I am the mistress of this house, Silas. I can't always
hide behind you, waiting for you to shield me from every storm."
His hand stilled on her back, his dark eyes searching hers
with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Silas Thorne," she whispered, a playful, loving smile
finally gracing her lips. "I'm your wife. I want to be worthy of your trust. I
want to be good to you, too."
A marriage couldn't survive on one person's efforts alone.
It was a lesson she'd learned from her own parents—a love so strong she
believed it was still thriving in some parallel universe.
Silas stared at her, the emotion in his chest so vast it
threatened to choke him. He pulled her into a crushing embrace, his face buried
in her hair. "Thank you, my love," he breathed, the words raw and heartfelt.
The news of the old matriarch's death spread through
Ashbourne's high society like wildfire, shocking the city's elite. The
collateral branches of the Thorne family descended upon the main estate in a
flurry of feigned grief and poorly concealed curiosity.
And miles away, the news found its way to Julian.
His so-called friend, Alex, delivered it with a kind of
ghoulish relish. "Hey, man, you hear? Your grandma just kicked the bucket.
Guess the family drama got too much for the old bat."
Julian froze, the world tilting on its axis. Great grandmother…
dead?
A torrent of conflicting emotions ripped through him.
Betrayal, anger, and a piercing, unexpected grief. She had failed him in the
end, casting him out, and he hated her for it. But she was also the woman who
had sung him lullabies, who had sneaked him candies when his father wasn't
looking, who had been the one constant, doting presence in his life.
His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, his vision
blurring. He couldn't accept it. This wasn't a peaceful passing. This was… this
was wrong.
And in the pit of his soul, a new, terrifying suspicion
began to take root. What had they done? What had Silas and Elara done?