Chapter 6
The air inside the Thorne estate felt recycled, stripped of oxygen and replaced with the scent of floor wax and cold, corporate ambition. Elara stepped into the foyer, the click of her heels against the marble echoing like a countdown. She had exactly four hours before the Thorne legal team’s background check finalized.
Julian was waiting. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his silhouette sharp against the city lights. He didn't turn when she entered, but the tension in his shoulders signaled he’d been tracking her arrival since she cleared the gate.
"The gala was a success," Julian said, his voice a low, steady hum that betrayed none of the exhaustion he must have felt. "The board is satisfied. The rumors regarding your past are, for the moment, contained."
"And the cost?" Elara asked, keeping her distance. She could see the wooden soldier sitting on the console table—a silent, jagged piece of evidence that Julian had moved from his car to the center of his world.
Julian finally turned. His eyes were dark, searching, and stripped of the performative warmth he’d worn for the cameras. "The cost is that I have staked my reputation on your integrity. If I find that you are hiding something that compromises that, the agreement is void. And you know what happens to those who break a Thorne contract."
He moved toward her, his presence a physical weight. "I found a medical record in your cloud storage, Elara. A gap in your timeline that aligns perfectly with the birth of a child. Tell me why a woman who claims to be a ghost has a pediatric file encrypted with military-grade software."
Before she could formulate a lie, the heavy oak doors to the gallery creaked open. Marcus Vane, a man whose presence in the Thorne estate was a tactical impossibility, stepped into the light. He held a manila envelope, his smile thin and predatory.
"Julian, always so thorough," Vane murmured, his gaze sliding to Elara. "But you’re looking in the wrong place. The truth isn't in her server. It’s in the hands of those who know what she’s really protecting."
He tossed the envelope onto the table. It slid across the polished mahogany, coming to rest against the wooden soldier.
Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm. She reached for the file, but Julian was faster. His hand clamped over hers, his grip firm, possessive, and terrifyingly cold. He pulled the file away, his eyes locking onto hers with a mixture of fury and dawning, agonizing suspicion.
"Don't," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Julian, please."
He ignored her, tearing the seal. As he pulled out the contents—photos of her son, taken from a distance, blurred but unmistakable—the room went deathly silent. Julian’s gaze flickered from the photos to the medical record he’d already pulled from her server.
He looked at her then, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. The world he thought he controlled—the fake engagement, the corporate strategy, the calculated distance—shattered in the space of a single heartbeat.
"This child," Julian said, his voice barely audible, his grip on the photos white-knuckled. "He has my eyes."