The following morning, ThorneCorp buzzed with whispers.
It wasn’t just the fallout from Roth’s collapse—something darker loomed in the air. Employees moved faster, emails pinged with urgent subject lines, and security doubled at every entrance.
Nicholas Thorne arrived at the tower in his usual black suit—but the ice in his eyes had sharpened. By his side, Alina walked in heels that clicked like gunfire, her chin lifted high despite the tremor in her chest.
Sasha Vale had made contact.
And the b***h didn’t come quietly.
A bouquet of blood-red roses had been delivered to the office—each thorn laced with subtle venom, each petal scented with the same perfume Nicholas once inhaled during his worst mistake. A card lay in the center.
“Let’s not pretend we didn’t write our sins together.” –
