Chapter 3

Victoria Ashworth smiled, a predator' s glint in her eyes.

"Actually," Victoria said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I don't think I want you around until the wedding. You're a distraction. A bad memory."

Elara remained silent, her heart starting to pound.

Victoria glanced towards the large, open balcony doors of the ballroom.

The party they were planning was a pre-wedding celebration on a large yacht, not here, but the venue discussion covered all events.

This balcony overlooked a busy street, several floors below.

Suddenly, Victoria let out a small, sharp cry.

She stumbled dramatically towards the balcony railing.

As if her heel had caught.

She pitched forward.

One hand flailed, grabbing the railing just in time.

She teetered precariously.

Marcus, ending his call, saw Victoria' s apparent stumble from across the room.

He moved instantly.

Covering the distance in seconds.

He reached her just as she seemed to lose her grip.

He caught her, pulling her back from the railing.

"Victoria! Are you alright?" he exclaimed, his voice tight with alarm.

Victoria sagged against him.

Her breath came in ragged gasps.

She pointed a trembling finger at Elara.

"She... she pushed me, Marcus! She tried to kill me!"

Her voice was weak, laced with terror.

Then, her eyes rolled back.

She went limp in Marcus's arms.

A perfect feigned faint.

Marcus looked from Victoria' s still form to Elara.

His face was a mask of fury.

"You venomous little viper!" he snarled.

Elara shook her head, numb. "No, I didn't... I wouldn't..."

He didn't listen.

His belief in Victoria was absolute.

His preconceived notion of Elara as deceptive and malicious, firmly entrenched.

"I'll deal with you later," he bit out.

He lifted Victoria into his arms.

"I'm taking her to get medical attention."

He strode out of the ballroom.

Leaving Elara standing alone.

Accused.

Condemned.

Despair washed over Elara.

"I don't love him," she whispered to the empty room.

The words were a hollow echo.

Useless.

She knew what was coming.

Punishment.

Marcus would return.

And he would make her pay for something she didn't do.

She had learned at Tranquil Pines.

Resistance was futile.

It only made the torment worse.

She walked to a chair and sat.

Waiting.

Hours later, Marcus returned to the Beacon Hill brownstone.

His face was grim.

Victoria, he said, was resting. Shaken, but unharmed thanks to his quick action.

He found Elara in her small room.

"Get up," he commanded.

His voice was cold, devoid of any warmth he once showed her.

Elara rose.

Her obedience was immediate.

Unquestioning.

It surprised him.

He had expected tears, denials, hysterics.

Not this... compliance.

It unsettled him, but he pushed the feeling aside.

He walked to an antique chest in the hallway.

From it, he took a riding crop.

A decorative item, never used.

Until now.

He returned to her room.

"You will learn the consequences of your actions," he said.

He raised the crop.

The first blow landed across her shoulders.

Elara didn't flinch.

Didn't cry out.

She stood silent.

Enduring.

The leather bit into her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

Another blow.

And another.

Marcus, frustrated by her silence, her lack of reaction, struck harder.

"Admit what you did!" he demanded.

"Admit you pushed her!"

Elara' s voice was barely a whisper.

"I was wrong."

Flat. Emotionless.

It wasn't the confession he wanted.

He wanted remorse, fear.

He continued the assault.

"You think you can destroy my happiness? After everything I've done for you?"

His own pain, his own confusion, fueled his rage.

The riding crop whistled through the air.

Her dress began to tear.

Sofia, the housekeeper, heard the sounds.

She rushed upstairs.

She burst into the room.

"Mr. Thorne! Stop! Please!"

She saw Elara, standing stoically, her back to Marcus.

She saw the raised crop.

The torn dress.

The angry welts already forming.

"You'll kill her!" Sofia cried.

Marcus stopped.

His arm, mid-swing, froze.

He looked at Elara.

Truly looked.

At her rigid posture.

Her utter lack of emotional response.

The torn fabric of her dress revealed skin crisscrossed with welts.

"You feel nothing?" he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse.

Disbelief warred with a dawning, terrible unease.

Elara turned slowly.

Her face was pale, her eyes empty.

"This is nothing, Uncle Marcus," she said, her voice calm.

"Tranquil Pines was much worse."

The quiet statement hung in the air.

More damning than any scream.

She looked past him, towards the door.

"Is the punishment complete? May I go now?"

Marcus stared at her.

The calmness, the comparison.

A cold dread began to creep into him.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly.

He pulled aside the torn fabric of her dress at her back.