The elevator ride felt like a descent into another world, despite the fact that the numbers on the digital display were climbing higher into the sky. When the doors slid open on the penthouse level, the silence was immediate and heavy. It wasn't the peaceful silence of the museum or the creative stillness of her studio; it was a vacuum, a space where sound was swallowed by thick carpets and polished stone.
Ellis Woods led her through a foyer that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of dark marble. There were no receptionists here, no bustling assistants, just the low, hum of the city far below.
"He's waiting for you inside," Ellis said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He opened a pair of massive, dark-wood double doors and gestured for her to enter.
Lyra took a breath, her fingers clutching the strap of her messenger bag as if it were a life raft. She stepped into the office, and for a moment, the sheer scale of it stopped her heart. One entire wall was made of glass, revealing a New York City that looked like a carpet of diamonds. The room was lit by the soft glow of a few designer lamps, casting long, dramatic shadows over a desk that looked like it had been hewn from a fallen oak.
A man was standing by the window, his back to her. He was tall, his silhouette sharp and unyielding against the backdrop of the skyline. He was holding a crystal tumbler, the amber liquid inside catching the light of the moon.
"I'm Lyra Sinclair," she said, her voice sounding small and fragile in the vast space. "My brother sent me. You're... Mr. Thorne?"
The man didn't move for a long moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace, he turned.
Lyra's breath hitching was the only sound in the room. The air seemed to turn to ice in her lungs. The man standing before her wasn't the elderly, grey-haired tycoon she had pictured. He wasn't a stranger.
It was the man from the museum.
The man who had stood before The Void looking like he was calculating the weight of the universe. The man who had a "sturdy name" and no taste for peppermints. Mr existential dread.
"Elias?" she whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and a strange, terrifying sense of betrayal.
Elias Thorne didn't smile. He didn't offer a polite greeting or acknowledge the "octopus" or the violet paint. He looked at her with a cold, analytical gaze that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope. He walked toward the desk, his charcoal suit moving with a fluidity that made him look like a predator stalking its own territory.
"Sit down, Lyra," he said. His voice was the same smooth silk she remembered, but the warmth she thought she had heard in the gallery was gone, replaced by a terrifying, clinical precision.
"You're him," she breathed, ignoring his command to sit. She stayed rooted to the spot, her mind spinning. "You're the CEO of Thorne Logistics. You're the person Dorian works for."
"I am," Elias said, setting his glass down on the mahogany surface with a soft clink. "And I am the person your brother has been systematically robbing for the last eighteen months."
"Robbing?" Lyra's voice cracked. "He said it was a misunderstanding. He said he was 'fixing' things"
"He was 'fixing' his own bank account," Elias interrupted, his eyes locking onto hers. "Dorian has funneled approximately ten million dollars through a series of shell companies. He used his access codes to bypass our internal audits, thinking he was clever enough to outrun the system. He wasn't."
Elias sat down, leaning back into the high-backed leather chair. He gestured again to the seat across from him. "Please. I don't enjoy repeating myself. Sit."
This time, Lyra's legs felt like they might give way, and she sank into the chair. The leather was cold against her skin. "Ten million... Elias, that's impossible. Dorian doesn't have ten million dollars. He lives in a one-bedroom apartment. He buys expensive watches, sure, but ten million?"
"He lost most of it," Elias said, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. "Bad investments, high-stakes gambling, and a desperate attempt to maintain an image he couldn't afford. The money is gone, Lyra. It cannot be recovered. My auditors have spent the last forty-eight hours tracing the leak. The path leads directly to your brother's desk."
Lyra felt a wave of nausea roll over her. She thought of her mother, of their quiet life, of the way Dorian had always promised to "take care of them." He had been trying to buy his way into a world that didn't want him, and in the process, he had destroyed everything they had.
"So what happens now?" she asked, her voice a hollow whisper. "Are you going to send him to prison?"
"That is the standard procedure," Elias said, tapping a long finger against the desk. "The evidence is insurmountable. My legal team tells me he'd be looking at twenty years, minimum. White-collar crime of this magnitude isn't taken lightly, especially when it involves a Thorne. I have the files ready to be handed to the District Attorney by morning."
Lyra felt the tears stinging her eyes. "Please. He's an idiot, but he's not a criminal. Not really. He was just... lost. Is there any way we can pay it back? I can sell the apartment, I can sell my father's paintings, I can work..."
"You could work for three lifetimes and not make a dent in ten million dollars, Lyra," Elias said, and though the words were harsh, there was no cruelty in his voice, only a devastating, cold logic. "And your father's paintings, while technically proficient, wouldn't cover the interest on the debt. You are standing in a hole you cannot climb out of."
He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk. The light of the desk lamp hit the sharp angles of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a statue carved from winter.
"However," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum that made the hair on her arms stand up. "I find myself in a unique position. One where I am willing to prioritize a different kind of value over the missing capital. I have a problem that cannot be solved with money, but it can be solved with a partner."
Lyra frowned, her confusion deepening. "A partner? What are you talking about?"
Elias reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a single, cream-colored folder. He didn't open it. He simply let it rest beneath the palm of his hand, his grey-blue eyes fixing on hers with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
"I am prepared to drop every charge against Dorian," Elias said slowly. "I will erase the debt. I will ensure his name stays out of the press and his body stays out of a cell. I will give your family back the peace your brother stole from you."
Lyra's heart hammered against her ribs. "And what do you want in exchange?"
Elias leaned into the light, his expression unreadable, his voice as steady as a heartbeat.
"I want a wife, Lyra. And I have decided that it's going to be you."
The air in the office seemed to vanish. Lyra stared at him, her mouth opening but no sound coming out. The man who had shared a peppermint, the man she had painted in shades of bruised violet, was looking at her as if she were a line item on a balance sheet.
"You want me to... what?" she finally gasped.
"I want you to marry me," Elias repeated, sliding the folder across the mahogany toward her. "Sign the contract, and your brother walks free tonight."
Lyra looked at the folder, then back at the man who owned the void. The world outside the window was full of diamonds, but in here, there was only the cold, hard price of a Sinclair's soul.