Chapter8
1207 Words
The Woman Who Returned
The Thorne mansion was still restless in the aftermath of chaos. Servants whispered in corridors, their voices low, cautious, like mice scurrying in the shadows of predators. The weight of Damien’s words the night before — “You don’t want revenge anymore. You want her.” — had not yet faded.
Roman had locked himself in his study until dawn, the doors barred. Damien had retired to his wing, but not before casting Emerald one last glance of quiet reassurance. Emerald herself had tossed and turned in her room, her thoughts torn between the fire in Roman’s eyes, the storm in Damien’s words, and the echo of her father’s warnings.
By morning, the household stirred into its usual rhythm — polished marble floors, gleaming chandeliers, clinking porcelain. But beneath the surface, tension simmered.
And then the car arrived.
A sleek black Bentley rolled past the iron gates, its tinted windows flashing briefly in the sun. The driver stepped out and opened the door. The air seemed to pause as a woman emerged, heels clicking with a rhythm of authority.
Helena Thorne.
She was in her late fifties, yet time had not softened her. It had sharpened her. Her hair — once raven-black — was streaked with silver, pulled into a neat chignon that revealed high cheekbones and a face sculpted by strength rather than vanity. Her tailored navy coat fell perfectly against her frame, and around her neck shimmered a single strand of pearls, understated yet commanding.
Her eyes were her true weapon. Piercing, cool, unflinching — eyes that had seen betrayal, divorce, and survival, and had not bent beneath them. Roman had inherited those eyes.
The first servant who stepped forward to greet her stammered under her gaze. “W-Welcome back, Madam Helena.”
“Back?” she repeated smoothly, her voice a silk blade. “I was never here to begin with.”
She strode inside, her heels echoing on marble like a countdown to war.
---
The Family Confrontation
Roman was the first to face her. He appeared at the foot of the staircase, his expression carved in ice. For a moment, son and mother locked eyes — reflections of each other, two wolves circling.
“Mother,” Roman said, each syllable cold.
Helena arched her brow. “So formal. I expected ‘Helena.’ Isn’t that what you call me now?”
Damien appeared moments later, walking slower, his gaze flickering between them. He didn’t smile, but his tone softened. “You came.”
“I booked the first plane,” Helena replied, brushing a speck of lint from her sleeve. “Your father may be gone, but you are not. My sons still breathe, therefore I come.”
Roman’s jaw tightened. “Don’t pretend to play the grieving widow. You left him.”
“I left the marriage,” Helena corrected coolly. “Not my blood.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Roman’s lip curled slightly, but Damien broke it. “Come inside, Mother. You’ve traveled far.”
Helena’s gaze flicked briefly to Damien, and something unspoken passed between them — softer, complicated. But with Roman, it was nothing but steel.
---
Helena Meets Emerald
Emerald had been watching from the side corridor, half-hidden, unsure whether to step forward. But Helena’s eyes found her anyway.
“And who is this?” Helena asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.
Emerald gathered her courage and stepped into view. “Emerald.”
Helena’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. “So. You’re the bride they forced into the lion’s den.”
The words struck Emerald’s chest like both insult and shield. She opened her mouth to respond but stopped — Helena wasn’t mocking. She was measuring. Weighing.
“You’re different,” Helena said finally, circling her slowly, her pearls catching light. “Not the fragile little ornament I expected. Interesting.”
Emerald swallowed, her palms damp. No one had ever studied her this way, not even Roman.
Roman’s voice sliced through. “She doesn’t need your approval.”
Helena’s gaze lingered on Emerald a moment longer before shifting to her son. “No. But she has mine.”
Emerald blinked. Shock rippled through her. Approval? From Thorne?
---
Vanessa Enters the Game
Of course, Vanessa chose that exact moment to sweep in, her perfume preceding her like a storm. Draped in silk and diamonds, she plastered on a smile and approached Helena with exaggerated warmth.
“Oh, you must be Helena!” Vanessa cooed. “Finally, we meet. I’m Vanessa, Roman’s—”
Helena’s eyes flicked over her in one glance, sharp and dismissive. “And you are?”
Vanessa froze, her painted smile wobbling. “I… I’m close to the family. Roman and I—”
“Close?” Helena cut in, her voice cool as glass. “Dear, proximity doesn’t equal importance.”
The servants nearby nearly choked trying not to laugh. Emerald lowered her eyes quickly, hiding the flicker of triumph burning in her chest.
Vanessa’s cheeks flushed scarlet. She forced a laugh, muttered something about needing tea, and fled.
Helena turned to Emerald, as if nothing had happened. “That one won’t last. She has the heart of a sparrow.”
Emerald bit back a smile.
---
A Private Conversation
Later that evening, Helena sought Emerald out on the terrace. The night air was cool, scented faintly of roses. The moonlight traced Helena’s silver streaks, making her look almost ethereal.
“Tell me, Emerald,” Helena began, resting her hands on the stone railing, “are you happy here?”
Emerald hesitated. The question was too sharp, too intimate. She looked down at her clasped hands. “Happiness isn’t… the right word.”
Helena hummed softly, a sound both knowing and sad. “Strength. That’s the word you must learn. This family respects nothing else. Speak their language, or they will devour you.”
Emerald met her gaze then, and for the first time, she felt something unfamiliar — not pity, not cruelty, but recognition.
“I don’t plan on being devoured,” Emerald said quietly.
Helena’s lips curved faintly. Approval, again.
---
Seeds of Conflict
Roman’s temper flared in the days that followed. He hated the way his mother seemed drawn to Emerald. He hated the quiet conversations, the glances, the shared silences.
Damien, on the other hand, seemed lighter in Helena’s presence, and even more protective of Emerald. The triangle sharpened into something dangerous: Roman vs Damien, Helena’s influence pushing them further apart.
---
That night, Roman wandered the west wing, restless. As he neared the guest suite Helena occupied, he heard her voice through the half-closed door.
“Yes… I found her here. She’s stronger than I expected… No, she doesn’t know yet. She mustn’t know.”
Silence. Then Helena again, lower:
“The accident was never about Ambrose. It was about her. If Emerald learns the truth too soon, it will destroy everything.”
Roman froze, every muscle coiled. His mother’s voice was clear, steady. She knew something. Something about the accident that had scarred Emerald’s past and hau
nted Roman’s own conscience.
His hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white.
What game are you playing, Mother?
—
- Writer
