HIS TO COMMAND

Chapter6

The Funeral Games

The black limousines stretched down the street like a parade of grief. Emerald Davis had seen wealth displayed in a thousand ways—charity galas, business openings, her own parents’ lavish anniversary parties—but never like this.

This mourning turned into a spectacle.

The church steps were carpeted in white lilies, their scent so heavy it nearly suffocated her. Men in tailored suits murmured in hushed tones, women in couture black gowns adjusted veils while reporters whispered from behind barriers. Photographers weren’t allowed inside, but that didn’t stop their lenses from flashing like vultures circling a dying beast.

It wasn’t just a funeral. It was a performance. A final act in the Thorne dynasty’s empire.

Emerald smoothed down the skirt of her black dress, keeping her chin high though her stomach churned. She wasn’t just another guest here. She was the scandal. The girl whispered about in hushed tones: the daughter of the man who ruined Ambrose Thorne.

Every stare cut through her, but she walked on, heels clicking against the marble like a drumbeat announcing her presence. She refused to cower.

Not here. Not now.

---

Inside, the church glowed with dim golden light. A massive portrait of Ambrose Thorne towered at the altar—sharp eyes, dignified jaw, the image of a man who had commanded boardrooms like kingdoms. His coffin gleamed black beneath the sea of roses.

Emerald’s breath caught. For all his ruthlessness in life, death had made him look fragile.

She slid into a pew near the back, her father beside her. His shoulders sagged beneath his suit, his face lined deeper than ever. He hadn’t spoken much since she confronted him about the files days ago. When she had dared to whisper about the police report, his reaction had been sharp, almost panicked:

"Never speak of that again, Emerald. Some truths are better buried. Roman must never hear of it—do you understand?"

The memory gnawed at her now, the silence between them louder than the organ music. She turned her head slightly, studying him.

He wasn’t just grieving Ambrose. He was hiding something.

---

The service began. Priests intoned prayers while the city’s most powerful sat like mourners at a coronation. Emerald barely heard the words. Her gaze kept drifting forward—to him.

Roman Thorne.

He sat in the front row, dark suit immaculate, expression carved from stone. If grief touched him, it didn’t show. His hand rested on the back of the pew, fingers curled with quiet control. Even in loss, he radiated power—untouchable, unreadable.

Beside him sat Damien, his younger brother, his features softer but shadowed by the same sharp bone structure. Unlike Roman, Damien’s grief showed. His eyes glistened, his jaw clenched as though holding back every storm inside him.

Emerald couldn’t look too long. The tension between the brothers was palpable, stretching like a taut wire across the church.

And then there was her.

Vanessa.

Roman’s long-time girlfriend—or so the tabloids claimed. She sat close to him, her gloved hand brushing his arm, her chin lifted high with smug ownership. Dressed in black silk that clung like second skin, she looked less like a mourner and more like a queen already auditioning for her crown.

Vanessa’s gaze flicked back once. When her eyes landed on Emerald, her lips curved into the faintest smirk.

Emerald looked away, heat crawling up her neck.

---

The service ended in a blur of incense and choir hymns. Mourners filed out into the reception hall, where chandeliers glittered above and champagne flowed as though they were celebrating rather than grieving.

Emerald hated it. The falseness. The way people whispered condolences with one breath and gossiped with the next.

She tried to keep to herself, hovering near the edge of the crowd with a glass of water. But fate—or perhaps Vanessa—had other plans.

It happened fast.

A subtle nudge against Emerald’s heel. A hand brushing her elbow at just the wrong moment. Her glass tipped, cold liquid spilling across her dress.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as the pale fabric darkened, clinging to her body. Her balance wavered, heel catching against the polished floor.

Before she could hit the ground, strong arms caught her.

Damien.

“Careful,” he murmured, steadying her. His coat was off in seconds, draped over her shoulders to shield the ruined dress. His eyes were warm, protective—so different from his brother’s icy detachment.

At the same time, her father rushed forward, his own coat held out as though to cover her from prying eyes. “Emerald—” His voice trembled, equal parts worry and shame.

Emerald froze between them, her heart pounding. For a moment, she almost let herself feel safe.

But the whispers were already spreading like fire.

Across the room, Vanessa’s smirk widened.

And Roman…

Roman hadn’t moved. He stood near the casket, posture rigid, gaze locked on the scene unfolding. His jaw clenched, his hand tightening around his glass until his knuckles blanched.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence burned hotter than any words.

---

Emerald straightened, shrugging Damien’s jacket tighter around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered to him, then to her father. Her cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin. She would not give Vanessa the satisfaction of seeing her break.

She walked out of the crowd with quiet dignity, ignoring the whispers. But inside, her chest ached.

Why did humiliation cling so heavy? Why did Roman’s silence cut sharper than Vanessa’s cruelty?

---

Night fell.

The Thorne estate loomed under silver moonlight, the air heavy with shadows and secrets. Emerald stood alone on the balcony of her room, staring out at the city lights, her thoughts churning.

The files. The police report. Her father’s silence. The humiliation.

It was too much. Her chest ached as though something inside her might break.

The door behind her creaked open.

She didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

Roman’s presence filled the room like a storm. He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, predatory.

“Enjoyed yourself today?” His voice was low, lethal calm. “My brother rushing to your side. Your father shielding you. Quite the performance.”

Emerald stiffened. “I didn’t ask for their help.”

His laugh was humorless, a dangerous sound. “Didn’t you? You looked very comfortable in Damien’s arms.”

She turned, anger sparking through her fear. “And what if I was? At least he doesn’t treat me like property.”

Roman’s eyes darkened, his control snapping like a whip. He closed the distance, one hand bracing against the railing beside her, trapping her in the shadow of his presence.

“Don’t test me, Emerald,” he said, voice sharp as broken glass. “You don’t belong to him. You don’t belong to your father. You belong to me.”

Her breath hitched, heart racing. She wanted to shove him away, to spit in his face. But his nearness burned, confusing and suffocating.

She whispered, trembling but defiant: “Maybe you don’t know what it means to belong, Roman.”

For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered—grief, rage, something unspoken. Then the mask slammed back into place.

He leaned closer, his voice a promise and a threat. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

Emerald’s chest tightened, fury and fear tangling toget

her. She didn’t know whether to scream or shatter.

But one thing was clear.

The game between them had only just begun.

—