Ruthless Empire (Royal Elite #6)(93)

37





Cole





Silver hasn’t said a word the entire way.

She’s slumped in her seat, staring out the window and trying her hardest not to break down.

It’s like she’s there but isn’t.

Not really.

She left a part of herself at that doctor’s office. I know, because I left a part of me too.

For a moment, I allowed myself to consider the prospect of becoming a father. Despite what I told her on the plane, my vision of fatherhood appeared a lot like blood in a pool.

Being a father meant becoming my own version of William and I would never be that fucking man.

However, the idea of being the father of Silver’s children… Well, that’s an entirely different thing altogether.

I started plotting where we’d go. How we’d live. All of it.

I started picturing a future where I wouldn’t have to sneak into her room or pull her into a dark corner to be able to touch her.

A future where she’s all mine in front of the world.

The doctor killed it. He aborted a dream that hadn’t fully formed yet.

Not knowing what to say or how to say it, I remain silent. I’ve always loved silence — it allows me to read in peace and let my thoughts be loud. Silence is my sanctuary.

Not now.

Now, I want to slice through it with a knife and end it once and for fucking all.

By the time we arrive to Lucien’s house, it’s almost evening.

Silver steps out of the car like a robot, hugging her bag, as I follow after. A butler greets us in front of the property. It’s built near the cliff of a beach. The nearby town is visible from here, but it’s far enough that no one would wander around the house.

Lucien must be a private man.

“Bonsoir,” a butler greets us at the entrance with a welcoming smile and motions at Silver’s bag. “S’ill vous plait.”

She hands him the bag and asks in a tired voice, “Where’s Mum?”

“Madame Davis?” I ask when he seems to be lost. I doubt he didn’t understand; he must be one of those French people who refuses to acknowledge any language other than their own. The level of his snobbishness is similar to Ronan’s favourite butler, Lars.

“Ah, oui. Madame Davis a retourné à l’Angleterre avec Monsieur Lucien.”

Really? Cynthia went back to England with Lucien without telling her daughter about it?

“What?” Silver retrieves her phone and winces. “Ugh. I forgot it’s on airplane mode.” She dials a number, then places the device to her ear. “Mum? Where are you?”

Silver paces the entrance while the butler just stands there, completely oblivious to the scene.

“I’m already in freaking France. Lucien must’ve told you I was coming. How could you leave?” She listens for a second. “It’s always emergencies this, work that. What about me, Mum? Me? Have you ever thought about me in all the decisions you make?”

Realising she snapped at her mother, she quickly backpedals. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…okay… Talk to you later.”

She hangs up with a sigh and keeps concentrating on her shoes as she speaks. “Mum had a work emergency. Lucien will be able to send the jet back to us tomorrow evening. I’m going to stay the night. You can catch a flight at the airport if you want.”

And with that, she steps inside and the butler follows her with a nod at me.

I release a long sigh, then go after her. My shoulders are tense and the back of my neck is about to snap with how rigid it feels.

I find Silver upstairs, standing in the middle of a room.

It’s similar to that time when I first touched her, first tasted her, when Mum and Sebastian announced they were getting married.

I’ve never been a believer of the butterfly effect, the fact that one simple alteration of initial conditions in a non-linear system can cause a catastrophic outcome later on.

However, I believe that small incidents, like Silver hearing that I lost my virginity that time, have led to a whole lot of clusterfuck. It’s because of what she heard that she retaliated. She fought back. And since then, we’ve kept on fighting and challenging each other in a vicious cycle.

Now, we’re here and nothing can be undone.

“Why are you still here?” She fiddles with her bag on the bed. “Go home. The driver can take you.”

“I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work. You’ll never be able to push me away, so you might as well stop trying.”

She pretends to not hear me as she yanks all the clothes out of the bag, her back bowing and rigid under the denim jacket.

I stride to her and grip her arm, forcing her to face me, to look at me. She can’t be alone right now.

Tears glisten in her eyes as she pushes at my chest. “What do you want from me? Just leave me alone.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re in pain. I hate it when you’re in pain, Butterfly.”

She breaks down then. A sob tears from her as she wraps her arms around my waist in a vice grip and hides her face in my chest.

I pull her close, a hand on her back and the other protectively around her head. I let her pain soak mine because if I had the option to take the hurt in her cries or the rawness of her grief, I would.