Chapter 1 The Corporate Cage

The sounds of passion shouldn't have reached my ears from behind the closed, mahogany double doors of Jason Thorne's private suite. But they did.

Loud. Unmistakable.

A husky groan-definitely his-followed by a high, breathy whimper that I recognized as belonging to Stephanie.

My lungs tightened, the air suddenly too thin in the hallowed halls of the Thorne penthouse. I stood outside the heavy door, a small, white envelope containing my mother's dinner invitation feeling ridiculously flimsy in my hand. I was supposed to knock, present the invitation, and wait for Jason to grace us with his presence at the dining table. Instead, I was rooted to the Italian marble floor, listening to the agonizing proof that the man I foolishly loved was actively, loudly engaged with the woman I dreaded.

Anger, perhaps? Jealousy? Maybe it was my own secret crush on Jason Thorne, the man who treated me like a poorly cataloged piece of family property.

I hated myself most of all for that crush. It was stupid. It was weak. It was the only thing I hadn't managed to root out during my eight years living under his roof.

The crush was a direct contradiction to all the evidence: Jason's deadly contempt for my presence, his constant need to remind the world that I was nothing more than an adopted stray brought in by his overly sentimental mother, Anna Thorne. He never failed to put that tag-adopted-on me, like a scarlet letter stitched into the very fabric of my expensive, borrowed life.

He'd rather tell the world I was a charity case than let them forget I didn't possess the inherent ruthlessness required to be a true Thorne. I didn't have the killer instinct; I didn't naturally crave power or the blood of a corporate rival. In his eyes, that made me a disgrace to the entire billion-dollar dynasty he was destined to command.

The doorknob turned, startling me. I quickly straightened my clothes and adjusted the expression on my face, aiming for neutral professionalism.

Stephanie stepped out first. She was draped in a silk robe that was far too large for her, which only highlighted the fact that she had just been sharing a bed-or maybe the floor, given the enthusiasm-with Jason. Her eyes, usually cold and calculating, were flushed with smug satisfaction. She looked me up and down, her lip curling in a familiar sneer.

"Looking for something, Jasmine?" she purred, her voice dripping with syrupy malice. "Don't bother. Whatever deal you're trying to pitch is already closed. And next time you're given such an offer, pass on it."

She was referring to the small internship opportunity I'd been hoping for in the Thorne Foundation-the charitable wing of the corporation, the place Jason scornfully referred to as the "pity department." Stephanie had evidently been instrumental in having that door slammed shut, too.

I rolled my eyes, intending to walk away and just lie to my mother that Jason was busy. I didn't have the energy to fight a battle I was doomed to lose. But Stephanie wasn't finished. The woman thrived on conflict, and her goal was never just to win, but to inflict pain.

She stepped out from the room entirely, allowing a sliver of the dimly lit, chaotic suite to show. Then, with a speed and fury that belied her polished exterior, she grabbed my arm just above the elbow, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my skin.

"Look at me when I talk to you, little orphan," she hissed, pulling me back towards the door. "You think wearing those tailored suits makes you one of us? You're nothing. Just a placeholder until Jason kicks you out of this house for good. You don't belong here, and you certainly don't belong near him."

Her grip tightened, painful and humiliating. I was struggling, fury beginning to simmer beneath my neutral facade, when a sharp, frigid voice cut through the air.

"Let her go, Stephanie."

Jason. He was leaning against the doorframe, still fully dressed in his crisp, tailor-made slacks and a slightly rumpled white shirt-evidently, he hadn't wasted much time in the activity before returning to work. He wasn't looking at Stephanie, or even at me. He was staring out the panoramic window at the sunset-drenched skyline of the city, his expression one of detached annoyance, as if a dog fight had broken out in his hallway.

And just as if she were a remote-controlled device, Stephanie immediately released me. She smoothed her hair, the malicious snarl instantly replaced by a soft, obedient smile as she turned to Jason. His command wasn't one of protection for me, but of preserving the decorum of his home. He didn't want a scene.

I rubbed my bruised elbow, shooting Stephanie a deadly glare before turning to Jason. The light from the setting sun caught his profile, turning the sharp angles of his face into chiseled bronze. Handsome? Yes. A jerk? A very big one. A snub? Absolutely. But he possessed a magnetic, dangerous aura of control that made him impossible to look away from, even when he made you feel like air.

"Dinner," I managed, my voice clipped and low. I extended the white envelope. "Anna wants you at the table promptly."

He finally lowered his gaze, his eyes-the glacial blue that always felt like a threat-briefly meeting mine. There was no warmth, no flicker of recognition, just a cold assessment. He took the envelope without touching my fingers, his movements economical and dismissive.

"Tell Mother I'll be there in five minutes," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly command that brooked no argument. He turned his back on us both and walked back into the luxury suite. The heavy door clicked shut, silencing the sounds of passion and replacing them with a final, echoing rejection of my presence.

Stephanie brushed past me, her silk robe whispering against my suit. She paused only long enough to lean in and murmur, "You know he's going to announce our engagement at the gala next month, don't you? It's over, Jasmine. It never even began."

I watched her walk toward the master elevator, her victory complete.

Dinner with the Thornes was always a fast, suffocating affair. Tonight was no different. Dad-Robert Thorne-sat opposite Mom, Anna. I was relegated to sit directly facing Jason.

"Oh! Leave our baby Jasmine out of this," Dad chuckled, oblivious to the tension as he turned to Mom. "She's so young, and I can't believe she's finally thinking about taking an official role in the Foundation. I mean, she was just so little yesterday."

Dad was the softer side of the family, genuinely kind and the reason I had a home. But Mom, Anna, was the original matriarchal force-a silent, sharp observer who maintained a veneer of perfect hospitality while ruling with an iron fist.

"Your father was two years younger than your age when he married me, darling," Mom said, her eyes fixed on Jason as she referenced his impending engagement.

Jason's jaw tightened. He stood instantly, pushing his chair back with a scrape that cut through the polite silence. "I'll be in my study. I have a nine p.m. call with Geneva," he announced, already halfway out of the dining room.

This was typical of Jason. Handsome? Yes. Avoidant? Definitely. A jerk? Always.

He hated any discussion that forced him to acknowledge his position, his future, or, worst of all, his emotions. He certainly hated any mention of marriage, even if it was to Stephanie-a merger of assets and power, which was the only reason he was going through with it.

I watched him go, feeling the foolish crush reassert itself-a sharp, painful pang in my chest. Why did I still ache for the man who saw me as an inconvenience? A defect?

I spent the rest of the evening listening to Mom talk about the logistics of the upcoming gala-the guest list, the seating arrangements, the immense pressure of securing a multi-billion dollar deal that evening. It was only a matter of hours until the formal rejection of my existence would be cemented with a diamond ring.

I went to bed that night with the dinner napkin stained with the ink of Jason's name, scrawled repeatedly during the interminable conversation. The crush was stupid. But my heart, like a fool, wouldn't listen to reason.

It was only a matter of hours, and my long, irrational dream would finally be crushed for good.