The ancestral home felt lighter with the purge of Julian's
and the matriarch's remnants, but a lingering melancholy clung to Arthur
Winslow. The revelations about Silas's dad Alistair true lineage had drained
him, leaving him listless and weary. After just a few days, Ingrid insisted on
returning with him to Oakhaven to recuperate in the familiar comfort of their
own home.
Silas and Elara, however, remained in Ashbourne. The reasons
were twofold. First, Silas needed to execute a sweeping restructuring of the
Thorne Group's upper management. With his own heir on the way—but years from
being ready to shoulder the burden—he had to create a system that could run
efficiently with less of his direct, daily involvement. This would grant him
the precious time he demanded with Elara and their children.
Second, Elara had successfully secured a permanent, coveted
position with Aeternum Corporation. Ashbourne was now their base.
They chose not to stay at the oppressive ancestral home,
with its ghosts and bad memories. Silas declared the place had an "unfavourable
aura," unfit for his pregnant wife. Instead, they returned to the serene,
modern luxury of the Rosewood Mountain Top Manor.
The manor sprang to life upon their return. Martha, the
long-time housekeeper, had overseen a meticulous cleaning from top to bottom. A
native of Ashbourne, Martha had spent her younger years working for the
Winslows in Oakhaven before settling here to manage Silas's primary residence.
Her warm, matronly presence was a constant in the vast home.
With the return of the masters came a contingent of
bodyguards, their quiet efficiency filling the halls with a sense of secure
vitality. Seeing the estate buzzing with life again, Martha's face was wreathed
in a permanent smile.
"Have Mr. and Mrs. Winslow already returned to
Oakhaven?" she asked Elara, a note of genuine disappointment in her voice.
"I was hoping they'd visit. I've washed all the clothes Mrs. Winslow left
behind and aired out the bedding in their room. It's been nearly a year since I
last saw them."
After lunch, Silas retreated to his third-floor study for a
video conference. Elara settled on the plush living room sofa, reviewing
economics notes for an upcoming proposal, when Martha brought her a tray of
freshly cut fruit.
"Thank you, Martha," Elara said, offering a warm
smile. She took a delicate bite of a honeydew slice before answering.
"They had to leave early, but perhaps next time we go to Oakhaven, you
could come with us and visit the Winslow family?"
Martha's face lit up at the invitation. Having served the
family for over thirty years, her bond with them was deep, more akin to a
beloved aunt than staff. Pleased, she left Elara to her studies.
But Elara found her focus waning, a specific memory tugging
at her mind. A slow, mischievous smile curved her lips. Picking up the tray,
she made her way up to the study.
The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the
afternoon sun. Silas had just concluded his call with Ethan in Italy. His
black, blue-light-blocking glasses were still perched on his nose, giving him a
severe, intellectual air when a soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in." His voice was a low rumble.
The door opened to reveal Elara, bathed in the hallway
light, holding the tray. Dressed in soft apricot silk loungewear, her hair
loosely tied, she looked like a vision of domestic bliss.
"Darling, finished with your work?" she asked, her
voice a melodic chime. "I brought you some dessert."
A genuine smile softened Silas's features. He rose, meeting
her halfway, and took the tray from her hands. One arm snaked around her waist,
guiding her to the large leather sofa against the wall. After ensuring she was
comfortable, he walked to the window and drew the curtains back.
Golden afternoon light flooded the room, illuminating dust
motes dancing in the air. The warmth instantly lifted the room's somber mood.
Silas sat beside her, his posture relaxed, legs slightly
apart. His gaze, however, was intensely focused on her.
"You... you're not wearing reading glasses, are
you?" Elara asked, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she stared at the
frames.
"This is only the second time I've seen you in glasses
in here."
The first time, he had worn a pair of stylish gold-rimmed
spectacles that had given him an almost forbiddingly refined, ascetic look.
Now, dressed in a simple white casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the
top buttons undone, the black frames contrasted with his relaxed attire,
creating a compelling mix of effortless power and scholarly intensity.
Silas chuckled, a deep, warm sound. He reached up and
removed the glasses. "They're just blue-light glasses. For staring at
screens." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur.
"And Mrs. Thorne, your husband is not nearly old enough for reading
glasses yet."
"Heh," she giggled, a dimple appearing in her
cheek. "I was just teasing."
Hastily, she speared a piece of honeydew melon and brought
it to his lips. "Here, try this. It's incredibly sweet."
Silas's dark eyes held hers, sparkling with a knowing
intensity. He parted his sensual lips and took the fruit, but instead of eating
it outright, he took slow, deliberate bites, his gaze locked on her the entire
time. The act was simple, yet charged with an undeniable, smouldering
sensuality.
Elara's heart stuttered. He's flirting with me over a
piece of melon? It was the kind of clichéd, cringe-worthy move from the
cheesy dramas she sometimes watched. Yet, coming from him—from her husband—it
sent a jolt of pure, liquid fire straight to her core. Her cheeks flushed,
warmth spreading across her skin.
"Uncle Thorne," she chided, trying to sound stern
but failing miserably as her voice came out a breathy pout. "Just eat
it."
The title, so formal yet so intimate in this context, made
him choke back a laugh. He swallowed the melon and in one fluid, powerful
motion, pulled her onto his lap, so she was straddling him.
"Baby," he growled, his voice husky, "you're
becoming more of a temptress every day."
Elara shifted, her hands bracing on his broad shoulders. The
hard, solid muscle of his thighs beneath her, and the unmistakable, growing
hardness pressing against her, made her tremble. The heat was overwhelming.
"Who told you to eat fruit so... distractingly?"
she whispered, her eyes dark with desire.
Silas's throat worked as he fought for control. His hands on
her waist tightened, then relaxed, a visible battle between want and restraint.
He cleared his throat, forcefully steering the conversation to safer ground.
"You didn't come up here just to feed me fruit, did
you?" he asked, his voice still rough.
Elara hummed in agreement, the memory that had prompted her
visit now making her shy. She rested her forehead against his, her voice soft.
"I was just thinking... about a misunderstanding from
when I first came here. That night it snowed so heavily, and I stayed over...
Martha brought me a set of nightclothes. She said they were the mistress's,
unworn..."
She trailed off, her cheeks pinkening. "And then the
next day, after we built the snowman, you brought me that woman's shawl in the
living room. I refused it... I didn't know then. I thought it must have
belonged to... to Julian's mother."
Silas's eyes darkened, but this time with profound amusement
and a flicker of triumph. His hands slid from her waist to the small of her
back, drawing her even closer.
"So," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear,
"you were jealous. Even back then."
"I was not!" Elara protested immediately, her face
burning. "I didn't even like you then!"
A low, rich chuckle vibrated through his chest, pure,
unadulterated joy transforming his handsome features. He leaned back just
enough to capture her gaze, his own burning with possessive love.
"So you didn't like me then," he stated, his voice
a velvet caress. "But you do now?"