The upper floors of the Thorne Building didn't just offer a view of the city; they offered a sense of dominion. From his floor-to-ceiling windows, Elias watched the grid of New York pulse with an electric, nervous energy. To the millions below, the lights were homes and lives; to Elias, they were data points in a massive logistics machine.
He was back in his charcoal suit, the fabric crisp enough to cut glass, but his mind was still snagged on a shade of ochre paint and a crumpled peppermint. He had spent the morning trying to bury the memory of the gallery under a mountain of acquisitions, yet every time he looked at a black-and-white contract, he saw a "bruise that was starting to heal."
A sharp, familiar double-knock preceded the door swinging open. Only one person entered Elias's office without waiting for a verbal command.
Julian Hale walked in with the easy, athletic grace of a man who spent his weekends on a sailboat and his weekdays making millions look easy. His dark blond hair was styled with a casual edge that defied the gravity of the corporate world, and his light blue eyes were already scanning Elias's face for cracks.
"You look like you're contemplating a hostile takeover of a small country, Elias," Julian said, dropping into one of the leather armchairs and propping an ankle over his knee. "Or perhaps you're just mourning the fact that your favorite tailor is on vacation? You're brooding. More than usual."
Elias didn't turn from the window. "I have a situation, Julian. One that requires a surgical touch."
Julian's grin faltered slightly. When Elias spoke in that register, the low, vibrating tone of a man calculating the variables, it usually meant someone was about to lose everything. "Business or personal? Because your mother called me three times this morning. Apparently, you're being 'difficult' about the Sterling girl and the Autumn Gala."
"Both," Elias said, finally turning. He walked to his desk and slid the leather-bound folder Silas had left toward Julian. "Silas found a leak. A significant one. Ten million diverted over eighteen months, funneled through shell companies. It's a classic embezzlement scheme, but it was done by someone who knew our internal verification bypasses."
Julian's expression went stone-cold as he began to flip through the pages. The easy-going best friend vanished, replaced by the sharp, pragmatic business partner. "Dorian Sinclair," Julian read, his eyes narrowing at the photo. "I remember him. Sharp kid. A bit too eager to please, maybe, but I didn't think he had the stones for a ten-million-dollar heist. Where is he now?"
"He's being watched. He thinks he's overseeing a logistics project, but his access has been cut. We can pick him up whenever we want."
Julian sighed, tossing the folder back onto the desk. "Ten million isn't a rounding error, Elias. It's a felony. We hand him to the feds, make an example of him, and recoup what we can from his assets. What's the 'surgical touch' you're talking about? This is a standard execution."
Elias leaned back, his grey-blue eyes hooded. "Recouping assets from him would be like trying to draw blood from a stone. The kid spent it all. Luxury cars, gambling, a life he couldn't afford. There's nothing left to seize. If I put him in prison, I get justice, but I lose the capital."
"Since when do you care more about ten million than a Thorne's reputation for ruthlessness?" Julian asked, leaning forward. "There's something else. I can smell it."
Elias hesitated. He thought of Lyra. He thought of the way she looked, slender but strong, vibrant and unfiltered. Most importantly, he thought of his parents' relentless pressure.
"My mother is right about one thing," Elias said, his voice dropping an octave. "I need a wife. Not because I want one, but because the board is looking for a reason to question my focus, and my father is looking for a reason to keep his hand on the wheel. If I marry someone like Clara Sterling, I'm giving him exactly what he wants, a political alliance that keeps me under his thumb."
Julian's brow furrowed. "And what does that have to do with a mid-level embezzler?"
Elias pulled the second photo out, the candid shot of Lyra in her forest-green dress, her auburn hair wild in the wind. He slid it across the mahogany.
Julian picked it up, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "Well. She's certainly not a Sterling. Who is she? A model? A spy?"
"She's his sister," Elias said. "Lyra Sinclair. She's an artist. She lives in a studio that's barely larger than this desk. She's the anchor of that family. Silas tells me she's the one who's been keeping them afloat since their father died."
Julian looked from the photo to Elias, a slow, disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. "You're kidding. You're actually considering... blackmail? Elias, that's dark. Even for you."
"It's not blackmail," Elias corrected coldly. "It's a contract. Her brother's freedom in exchange for two years of her time. I need a wife who has no ties to our world, someone I can control because her entire family's survival depends on her cooperation. No social climbing, no hidden agendas from rival firms, no parents whispering in her ear. Just a clean, legal arrangement that satisfies the Thorne legacy and gives me the breathing room I need."
"And the girl?" Julian asked, his voice losing its humor. "Does she strike you as the 'cooperative' type? Because in this photo, she looks like she'd rather set your office on fire than sign a marriage certificate."
Elias felt a phantom scent of peppermint. "She's impulsive. Idealistic. She'll do anything for her family. I saw her yesterday, Julian. Coincidentally, at the gallery. She has no idea who I am. She thinks I'm just 'Elias,' a man who needs a piece of candy."
Julian stared at him for a long, quiet minute. "You met her already? Before you knew about the brother?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And she's... chaos," Elias admitted, the word tasting like a confession. "She sees things differently. She looks at a void and sees a bruise that's healing. She's exactly the kind of distraction my father won't know how to handle. He'll be so busy trying to 'refine' her that he'll forget to look at what I'm doing with the firm."
Julian stood up, pacing the length of the office. "It's brilliant, in a purely psychopathic way. But you're playing with fire, Elias. A girl like that... you can't just 'reclassify' her like a debt. She has a soul. You don't know how to handle souls. You know how to handle spreadsheets."
"I don't need to handle her soul," Elias snapped. "I need her to play a part. Two years of public appearances, holiday dinners at the estate, and a dignified exit with enough money to fund her art for the rest of her life. It's a fair trade for her brother's life."
"Have you told her yet?"
"No. I'm having Dorian picked up this afternoon. I'll let him sit in a cell for a few hours. Let the reality of a twenty-year sentence sink in. Then, I'll bring her in."
"And if she says no?" Julian asked, stopping at the door. "If she'd rather see him rot than marry a man who's holding a gun to her head?"
Elias looked down at the photo of Lyra. He remembered the smudge of ochre on her cheek; a mark of a life lived without permission. He remembered her laugh. For a fleeting second, he felt a pang of something that felt dangerously like hesitation. But then he remembered his father's cold, demanding eyes and his mother's calculated "warmth."
"She won't say no," Elias said, his voice regaining its steel. "People like Lyra Sinclair believe in heroes and sacrifices. She'll play the martyr to save her brother. And I'll have my wife."
"Just remember one thing, Elias," Julian said, his hand on the door handle. "In the stories, the martyrs usually end up changing the kings, not the other way around. Don't be surprised if she brings a little too much 'color' into this grey tomb of yours."
When Julian left, the office felt colder than before. Elias picked up his desk phone.
"Silas? It's time. Pick up Dorian Sinclair. And send a car to the warehouse district. I want his sister here by eight p.m. Tonight."
He hung up and walked back to the window. The sun was setting, casting long, jagged shadows over the city. He thought about the "octopus" and the "bruise."
He was about to destroy her world, and yet, he found himself checking his reflection in the glass, straightening a tie that was already perfect. He told himself it was about the contract. He told himself it was about the legacy.
But as the first stars began to poke through the city's smog, Elias Thorne realized he wasn't just waiting for a business associate. He was waiting for the light to hit the black paint. He was waiting to see if she would still look at him with wonder when she realized he wasn't the man who needed a peppermint, but the man who owned the void.