The Thorne Estate was a sprawling fortress of white marble and ancestral pride, but as Lucian’s tires screeched up the driveway, it felt like a mausoleum. He didn't wait for the butler to open the door. He slammed his way into the grand foyer, his footsteps echoing like thunder.
"Mother!"
Beatrice Thorne was sitting in the solarium, sipping tea from a delicate bone-china cup. She looked as she always did—perfectly poised, her silver hair styled into a crown, a string of pearls around her neck that cost more than a small hospital.
"Lucian, dear," she said, not looking up. "You’ve been making quite a spectacle of yourself lately. Buying law firms? Standing in the rain like a common beggar? It’s beneath a Thorne."
Lucian walked over and swiped the tea cup off the table. It shattered again
