Chapter 2 Dark Claws

The party was long over. The chandeliers no longer sparkled, the laughter had faded into silence, and the Hemsworth mansion lay draped in a heavy quiet. But in the master bedroom, the storm that had been restrained all evening finally broke.

Elena stood in the centre of the room, her chest heaving, her hands trembling as she faced the man she had once idolised. Rage had burned in her veins all night, hidden behind the smile of a perfect hostess, concealed beneath the mask of the dutiful wife. Now, with the walls of their bedroom as her only witness, she let the words pour out.

“It’s one thing for you to crawl into the beds of your mistresses like the shameless man you’ve become,” she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air, “but bringing her here into our home that is the height of it, Alexander. How dare you disrespect me this way? Disrespect our marriage! Disrespect our family! This house was supposed to be sacred, and you dragged your filth into it.”

Alexander sat by the tall window, unbothered, a glass of his favourite wine in hand. He swirled it lazily, watching the red liquid catch the low glow of the lamp. He looked every bit the image of control, elegance, and power, yet to Elena, it was mockery.

When he finally spoke, his tone was maddeningly calm. “Why do you work yourself into such a state over things you can’t control, Elena?”

Her breath caught. The words landed like a slap.

He took another sip before continuing, almost casually. “If it will ease your conscience, I didn’t invite her. She came of her own free will. That much, at least, is not on me.”

For a moment, Elena was too stunned to speak. She didn’t know what angered her more—the way he spoke, as though the weight of her humiliation was trivial, or the sheer arrogance of his words. Her throat tightened as fury and heartbreak battled inside her.

She stepped forward, her voice trembling with restrained rage. “Do you even hear yourself, Alexander? Do you hear how easily you excuse betrayal? You make a mockery of me, of us, and you expect me to stand here like a fool—”

“Enough, Elena.”

The sudden rise in his voice cut through hers. He pushed himself up from the chair, his tall frame looming over her, shadowing her in the dim light. His eyes, cold and inexorable, pierced into hers, freezing her where she stood with sheer strength.

“It’s been a long night,” he said, his voice low but laced with warning. “And I need my rest. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

He turned his back on her then, walking toward the bed with a finality that made her chest ache. Pulling back the silk sheets, he slid in with practised ease, tucking himself in as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t just shattered the woman who stood frozen in place.

Elena remained by the window, her nails digging into her palms, her body trembling with anger she couldn’t release and sorrow she couldn’t voice. The room felt colder than it had all night, and as she watched her husband close his eyes, the truth pressed down on her like a suffocating weight.

She wasn’t just married to a powerful man. She was shackled to him.

Elena couldn’t bear another second in that room. Her rage and grief threatened to choke her, so she spun on her heel and stormed out, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor of the long hallway.

But she stopped abruptly when she nearly collided with a small figure standing silently in the shadows. Timothy. Her son.

The boy’s wide, puppy-like eyes looked up at her, glistening with questions too heavy for his age. His small hands were curled at his sides, his shoulders tense as though he had been standing there for a while, listening.

“Mom,” he said quietly, his voice fragile. “You and Daddy fought again.”

For a moment, Elena froze, her throat tight. Then, softening, she crouched down and pulled him into her arms, burying her face in his hair. “Oh, Jo darling,” she whispered, using the nickname she had given him since he was a toddler. “Why would you say that?”

Timothy’s voice was muffled against her shoulder, but firm with the intuition that always set him apart. “I heard you, Mom. You were fighting about the lady in red, weren’t you?”

Elena stilled, her heart dropping. How did he know about Madison? She pulled back to study his face, but Timothy’s expression was open, innocent.

“The lady in red?” she repeated lightly, forcing a scoff, trying to dispel the tension with a joke. She smoothed his hair with trembling fingers. “Why would you say something like that, my little prince?”

Timothy’s eyes searched hers, unblinking. “Because I heard one of the staff talking. They said the lady in red is Daddy’s mistress.”

Elena’s blood boiled, fury rising inside her like wildfire. How dare the staff let such poison reach her son’s ears? She made a silent vow to get to the bottom of it, but right now, Timothy mattered more than her anger.

Guiding him gently by the hand, she led him to his room, her voice calm even as her heart thundered in her chest. Once she sat him on the edge of his bed, she cupped his small face in her palms, her eyes shining.

“Listen to me, Jo,” she said softly, but with steel beneath her words. “Your father loves you. He loves us. And he would never do anything to hurt us, do you understand? Forget what anyone says. We are the Hemsworths. We are a happy, perfect family. That’s all that matters.”

Timothy was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes searching his mother’s face as though trying to measure the truth behind her words. Then, in the softest voice, he whispered, “Okay.”

He yawned, and Elena seized the moment, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Now go to sleep, Jo. Tomorrow will be brighter.”

“Okay,” Timothy murmured again, this time more to himself than to her.

Elena lingered by the door for a heartbeat, her hand resting on the knob, her chest tight with unspoken pain. She knew her words had been a lie. She didn’t believe them herself. But she had to. For Timothy. He was the reason she was still here, clinging to this broken marriage, holding out hope for something that no longer existed.

Closing his door quietly, she glided along the deserted corridor, the click of her heels echoing through the stillness of the big house. She moved to her own secluded chamber—the private sanctuary she kept available for evenings like this, when her husband's presence became unbearable. Tonight was one of those nights.

Elena shut the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment before crossing to the bed. With a heavy heart, she slid beneath the covers. Her last thought, before sleep claimed her, was a fragile prayer.  Maybe tomorrow will be better.

—

Morning came not on sunshine or chuckles but on a scream.

It tore through the house, a screeching, anguished cry that rattled the walls and sent Elena flying out of bed. Her heart pounding, she sprang from bed and sprinted down the hallway, nightgown fluttering behind her. At the master bedroom door, a cluster of staff huddled, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror.

“What is it?” Elena demanded, her voice sharp with fear. “Why the screaming? What’s happened?”

No one answered. One trembling maid simply raised a hand and pointed toward the bed.

Alexander Hemsworth was sprawled across the bed in a grotesque stillness. His once-proud chest did not rise, his arms lay splayed wide as though abandoned by life itself. His lips were parted, but what spilt from them was not breath. Yellow, crusty foam clung to the rims of his mouth, staining his skin, dripping down to the expensive sheets beneath his chin. His face, always rosy with vitality and health, was white, ashen, cold, unrecognisable.

Elena stood frozen in the doorway, her throat closed. Then, as if wishing might cause the truth away, she breathed, "Alex?" Her voice cracked, a tender plea.

No response.

Her heart hammering, she rushed forward, falling to her knees beside him. She seized his shoulders and shook him gently at first, then harder, her voice rising with each desperate call. “Alexander… wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up this minute!”

But the body beneath her hands did not stir. His head lolled loosely with her frantic shaking, his lifeless weight confirming what her heart already knew.

He was not sleeping.

He was gone.

“Oh my God… Alexander Hemsworth!” The scream tore from her chest, raw and guttural, echoing off the tall bedroom walls. Her hands clawed at him, pushing against his chest, willing it to rise with breath that would not come.

And then—

A soft voice broke the air.

“Daddy?”

Elena’s tear-filled eyes snapped toward the door. There stood Timothy, his small figure framed by the doorway, his face pale, his eyes wide with a horror far too old for his ten years. He stared at the bed, at the unmoving figure of the man he adored, and though he said nothing more, his trembling lips betrayed the truth he already knew but simply refused to believe.

“No!” Elena cried, her heart fracturing. She stumbled to her feet, pointing frantically to one of the stunned staff hovering nearby. “Take him out! Now! Don’t let him see this!”

The maid, pale and trembling, obeyed, ushering Timothy away, though his wide, grief-stricken eyes lingered on his father’s body until the door shut between them.

Left alone, Elena collapsed back beside the bed, her hands clutching at the sheets, her sobs breaking free in violent waves. She shook her husband again, though she knew it was useless. The man who had commanded rooms, who had built an empire, who had been both her greatest love and deepest torment, now lay still and silent.

Her cries filled the mansion, raw with anguish, but beneath them another sound grew louder—a question that echoed in the chambers of her mind.

What now?