Chapter 79 Who's the father?
CHAPTER 79: Who's the father?
Silas
The chaotic, rhythmic thrumming behind my temples had refused to subside. For the better part of the morning, I'd been holed up in my office, hunched over a stack of acquisition files. It happened to be a weekend and I was working from home, and the Founders Ball was later tonight.
My mind was constantly going over the haunting echo of a woman’s plea, and the smell of Lilies.
A soft, hesitant knock at the door broke the spell. The door was pushed in softly, and someone entered. I didn't look up, but the shift in the air, and the familiar faint scent of lemon, told me exactly who it was.
“Silas?” Vera’s voice was barely a whisper, heavily tinged with a lingering nervousness.
I didn't reply or acknowledge her, but kept flipping through files on my laptop.
She shuffled from one foot to the other.
“Do you… do you feel any better?”
There was genuine unmistakable concern in her voice.
Was she worried about me?
“What do you need, Vera?” I replied, my voice curt. I kept my gaze fixed on the screen, my fingers frozen over the keyboard.
I could hear her disappointment even without looking at her.
She exhaled softly. “I was supposed to go to the hair stylist today,” she said, her fingers twisting together in front of her. “But I'm not going alone,” she added hastily. “Cherry is going with me. I just wanted to make sure it was still alright.”
“No,” I said flatly, finally lifting my gaze toward her. “The stylist can come here. I'm not giving you freedom to go wherever you want.”
Her eyes walked up. “But—”
“Nothing has changed, Vera,” I cut in sharply. “Make no mistakes about it… you're still my prisoner.”
She froze for a moment, perhaps absorbing the fact that nothing had changed in her predicament.
“Silas, please,” she pleaded, her eyes searching mine. “I’m not asking for anything more. I just really need to go—”
“Enough,” I snapped, feeling my annoyance rise. “You want a damn hair stylist, I'd get you a hundred of the best, but you're not stepping out.”
“There are other… feminine supplies I need to get. Things the stylist won't have.”
My gaze traveled downward, trailing slowly over the soft, subtle curve of her belly beneath her dress.
A cold, dry smirk touched my lips.
“You’re already pregnant,” I noted flatly with a raised brow. “Unless the laws of biology have changed in the last hour, I highly doubt you have a sudden, urgent need for sanitary towels. In any case, I'd empty the malls and have them delivered here.”
Her face flushed a deep, humiliated crimson, the heat of her embarrassment almost radiating across the desk.
“Oh,no. It… it isn't that,” she stammered, looking at her feet.
“Then what? Prenatal vitamins?” I leaned back in my chair. “Or you're craving something you're embarrassed to have anyone see?” my eyes locked onto her stomach again.
The vessel for a Rutherford heir that didn't share a drop of my blood.
The question that had never taken importance or space in my mind suddenly surfaced.
“Who is the father?”
The air seemed to vanish.
Vera stilled, her body locking into a rigid, defensive posture that clearly showed that she had not expected that question.
I hadn't either.
“Why are you asking me this now?” she whispered. “You didn't care before.”
“Curiosity,” I said, standing up and walking around the desk. “I’m a businessman. It's quite necessary that I know the provenance of what I’m putting my name on. I want to know whose legacy I am claiming before the world as my own. Tell me, who was he? Some penniless poet? An old flame?”
She didn't reply. Her face lost its colour and her breath turned ragged, her fingers curled tightly at her sides.
“It wasn't Damien.”
I had no idea why I felt a tiny rush of pleasure that that turd hadn't fathered her child.
I inclined my head slightly.
“That's what you said before. But it's not the answer to my question now, is it?”
Her expression shattered, a raw, visceral upset clouding her features. “I don't know,” she choked out.
I stopped in my tracks, my brow furrowing.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Clarify that, Vera,” I said casually leaning against the desk. “Is the list that long, or is your memory that short?”
She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with breath staggering agony.
“It wasn't Damien,” she said, the words spilling out like a confession. “Damien… he—he drugged me,” she whispered. “Then, he served me up to someone for his own selfish gains.”
My blood ran cold.
She wrapped her arms around herself like she was shielding herself from an attack.
“I don't know who it was. I never saw his face,” her voice trembled. “That is how this happened.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
I was floored, my mind didn't have to struggle to reconcile the image of the man I knew Damien Vane to be, with a crime so calculated and depraved.
No matter how much I wanted her to pay for what she'd done, I couldn't deny my anger at what she’d gone through. Her guilt didn't devalue her suffering.
I was at a complete loss for words.
“You didn’t try to find out who it was?” I asked, my voice sounding distant.
She stared at me. “Damien refused to tell me anything,” she replied, a tear finally escaping. “He told me I should be honoured to have been the one,” she whispered, agony raw in her voice.
My gaze flicked to her stomach. “And yet… you kept it.”
“It is my child too,” she said fiercely, her hands wrapping protectively around her middle. “And besides… you gave me an option with your proposal. You gave me a way out of the gutter.”
White hot rage flowed in my veins. The type that blinded me and pounded in my ears. I itched to lay my hands on Vane.
“When did this happen?”
“About three months ago,” she replied. “A week before Lily and I left Las Vegas. And three weeks before we first met.”
I stilled.
There was such a coincidence. Exactly at the time she gave, I was in Las Vegas…at Damien Vane’s nightclub.
Before I could respond, the sharp vibration of my phone on the desk broke the heavy silence. I glanced at the caller ID, grateful for the interruption. It was the lead I had been waiting for.
I looked back at Vera who was wiping her tears and felt a strange, uncomfortable tug in my chest.
“Go,” I said, my voice rough as I gestured toward the door. “Go to the stylist. Take Cherry and two security detail members,” I said walking back to my chair.
She stared at me, genuinely surprised. “Thank you.”
She looked at me, then turned and fled, leaving me with the ringing phone and the bombshell revelation she just dropped.