The ThorneCorp boardroom had never looked more like a stage for war.
Glass walls shimmered in the evening light, refracting the tension hanging between the elite gathered around the obsidian table. Board members whispered, eyes flicking to their tablets, phones, the empty seat at the head—reserved for the man whose empire now teetered on a knife’s edge.
Nicholas Thorne walked in like a storm dressed in silk and sin.
His presence cracked the air like lightning—tailored charcoal suit sharp enough to kill, obsidian eyes unreadable, rage coiled behind a mask of icy restraint. Behind him, Alina entered in a black dress that hugged every inch of her defiance, lips tinted crimson, eyes dangerous.
Gasps rippled. No one could ignore the power shift.
They sat.
“Gentlemen,” Nicholas said, voice
