Chapter 3

The headquarters of Thorne Industries was a monument to power. It pierced the Veridia skyline, a shard of black glass and steel that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The lobby was a cavern of marble and silence, the air chilled to a precise, inhuman temperature. A severe-looking receptionist with a nameplate that read "Sarah" directed me to the top floor without a smile.

The elevator ride was a silent, swift ascent that made my ears pop. When the doors opened, they did so directly into Julian Thorne's office. The space was vast, minimalist, and intimidating. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window offering a god-like view of the city below. My step-father's company headquarters was a squat, unimpressive building in the distance. The air smelled of expensive leather, clean glass, and the faint, sharp scent of bergamot I remembered from the night before.

Julian Thorne sat behind a massive black desk that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of obsidian. He wasn't looking at the view; he was looking at me. He wore another perfect suit, this one a dark charcoal grey. He gestured to the leather chair opposite him.

"Sit," he commanded.

I sat. The leather was cool and supple against the back of my legs. I was wearing my best-and only-blazer, a navy blue piece I'd bought on sale two years ago. It felt woefully inadequate in this temple of wealth and influence. My hands were clasped tightly in my lap, the only sign of my inner turmoil.

He pushed a slim folder across the polished surface of the desk. "The agreement."

I opened it. It wasn't a proposal; it was a contract, dense with legal jargon. But the core terms were brutally simple. We would be legally married for a period of one year. In that time, he would be free from his own family's pressure to marry and produce an heir. In return, he would provide the capital and corporate infrastructure for me to launch my own company, built around the intellectual property I had developed-the Aura project. I would have complete autonomy, backed by the formidable power of Thorne Industries.

It was a cold, clean, transactional escape. A way to rebuild my life and reclaim my work, completely independent of the family that had cast me aside. There was no mention of emotion, no pretense of affection. It was a business deal, pure and simple.

"My lawyers have reviewed this," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It is ironclad. You get your independence. I get a year of peace. At the end of 365 days, we file for a quiet, amicable divorce. You keep your company. We go our separate ways."

I read the key clauses again. He was offering me everything I had just lost, and more. He was offering me revenge on a silver platter. The price was a year of my life, bound to this cold, intimidating stranger. A year ago, the idea would have been horrifying. Today, it felt like salvation.

"I have one question," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "Why me?"

His pale grey eyes met mine. There was no flicker of emotion in them. "You were convenient," he stated, as if discussing a stock price. "And your connection to Mark's family provides a... synergistic benefit. Their primary competitor backing their discarded daughter and her stolen project will be a significant market disruption. I enjoy disruptions."

So I was a tool for his corporate games, too. A pawn to be played against his rivals. Strangely, the honesty was refreshing after the cloying, sentimental lies I had been fed my whole life. With Julian Thorne, at least I knew exactly where I stood.

I picked up the heavy, expensive pen lying next to the contract. My hand was steady as I signed my name on the dotted line. Clara Hill. For the last time.

As the ink dried, a sense of finality washed over me. I had just sold a year of my life. I had just declared war.

"Good," Julian said, taking the contract and sliding it back into its folder. He stood up, his tall frame dominating the room. "Our first order of business, then."

I looked up at him, expecting him to outline the first steps of incorporating my new company.

"Tonight is the annual Meng Family Foundation Gala," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You will attend. As my fiancée."

The blood drained from my face. "What? No. I can't." The thought of facing them all, so soon, was nauseating. The pitying looks, the whispers, Mark and Isabelle parading their perfect love. "I wanted a quiet exit, not... not a public spectacle."

"A quiet exit is a weak one," he countered, his tone sharp. "They will paint you as a heartbroken girl who ran away. We will control the narrative from the very beginning. You will not arrive as a victim. You will arrive as my partner. It is the only way to ensure a clean break and establish your new position of power. It is non-negotiable."

His jaw was set, his eyes like chips of granite. He was right, of course. Hiding would only feed their story. But the thought of walking into that hall, of facing Mark, made my stomach churn with a mixture of terror and fury.

He saw the conflict on my face. "A car will pick you up at seven," he said, his tone softening by a fraction of a degree. "There will also be a delivery. Wear what's in the box." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

The gala was a glittering nightmare. The grand ballroom of the Veridia Hotel was dripping with crystals and awash in the glow of a thousand tiny lights. The air hummed with the sound of a string quartet, polite laughter, and the clinking of champagne flutes. It smelled of money, perfume, and lilies.

I felt like an imposter in the gown that had been delivered. It was a sheath of deep crimson silk that clung to my body, elegant and severe. A necklace of diamonds, cold and heavy, rested against my collarbone. I was a doll, dressed for a role I didn't know how to play. Julian was a phantom at my side, his hand a constant, firm pressure on my lower back. He navigated the crowd with an unnerving grace, his presence parting the sea of Veridia's elite.

Then I saw them. Mark and Isabelle, holding court near the stage, bathed in the adulation of the crowd. Mark looked handsome and carefree. Isabelle was radiant. Seeing them together sent a fresh wave of pain through me, so sharp and sudden it almost made me gasp. Julian's hand tightened on my back, a silent, grounding gesture.

Just as I was steeling myself, my step-father, Mr. Meng, took to the stage. He gave a rambling speech about family, legacy, and the bright future of his company. My heart began to pound.

"And as we look to the future," he said, beaming, "we celebrate new beginnings. Not just the wonderful engagement of my son, Mark, to the brilliant Isabelle Chen..." He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd. They found me. A cold dread washed over me.

"But also the passing of the torch. I'd like to invite my step-daughter, Clara, to the stage."

A spotlight hit me. The crowd murmured. I was frozen, trapped in the beam of light like a frightened animal. I could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me. This was it. The ultimate humiliation. He was going to make me publicly endorse them, to hand over my project with a smile on my face.

I took a shaky step forward, then another, moving as if through water. The stage felt a million miles away. Mark was watching me, a flicker of something-pity? unease?-in his eyes. Isabelle's smile was tight, victorious.

As I reached the steps to the stage, my legs trembling, the grand doors of the ballroom swung open with a resounding bang, silencing the entire hall.

Every head turned.

Julian Thorne stood silhouetted in the doorway. He was no longer a phantom at my side; he was a force of nature. He walked into the room, and the power dynamic of the entire evening shifted on its axis. He moved with a predatory grace, his gaze fixed on the stage, on me.

He didn't stop at the bottom of the steps. He ascended them, walking directly past my stunned step-father. He took the microphone from the host's limp hand. Then, he turned to me, and in one smooth, deliberate motion, he slid a possessive arm around my shoulders, pulling me firmly against his side. The heat of his body soaked through the thin silk of my dress.

He leaned into the microphone, his voice a low, dangerous thunder that filled the cavernous room.

"I believe there's been a misunderstanding," he announced, his cold grey eyes locking onto a pale, shocked Mark. "You can't give away my fiancée's intellectual property. Not when she's about to become the majority shareholder of your biggest competitor."

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