HIS TO COMMAND

Chapter7

Fire and Ice

The Thorne mansion slept under the weight of grief, its chandeliers dimmed, its corridors whispering with shadows. Outside, the night storm rattled against the tall glass windows, as if the sky itself mourned Ambrose Thorne.

Roman sat in his private study long past midnight, a fortress of papers, contracts, and ledgers stacked before him. The only light came from a single brass lamp, its glow painting sharp angles across his face. His jacket was discarded, shirt sleeves rolled high, tie loose around his neck. A half-finished glass of whiskey sat at his elbow, untouched for an hour.

Numbers blurred together, but he forced himself to read, again and again. Each line was a lifeline to control. Each contract, a thread tying him to the empire his father had built.

His hand curled into a fist. His father had died with regrets. Roman refused to die the same way.

“Thornes don’t bend,” Ambrose’s gravelly voice echoed in his memory. The words had been spoken years ago, but the image of his father’s final days—frail, gasping for breath, looking more man than titan—burned Roman from the inside. Weakness had stolen Ambrose’s dignity. Weakness was a disease.

And Roman would never catch it.

A knock disturbed the silence.

“Come in,” he said, voice edged with steel.

The door creaked open. Vanessa leaned against the frame, a vision in silk nightwear that clung to her like mist. Her lips were painted a poisonous red even at this hour, her eyes glittering with false innocence.

“Still awake, darling?” she purred, her tone syrup-sweet.

Roman didn’t glance up. “What do you want?”

She pouted, swaying toward him with the ease of a woman used to turning heads. “I came to check on you. You’ve been working nonstop since the funeral. You need rest.”

“I’ll rest when I’ve secured what my father built,” he replied flatly, flipping to the next page.

Vanessa slid closer, her manicured hand brushing over the carved oak of his desk. “You don’t always have to be so cold, Roman.”

“I don’t have time for distractions.”

Her smile tightened. Still, she leaned down, letting her perfume engulf the space. “Distractions… or comfort?” Her hand hovered near his shoulder.

Roman’s head lifted, and his eyes cut to hers, lethal and unblinking. “Don’t mistake your place, Vanessa.”

Her hand froze, then she slowly withdrew, masking her humiliation behind a coy tilt of her lips. But her gaze flicked toward the scattered papers on the desk, and a spark lit in her eyes. Something dangerous. Something plotting.

If Emerald needed reminding of where she stood, this was the perfect chance.

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The following morning, chaos erupted.

The grand hall, usually a place of elegance, was electric with fear. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows, but it did nothing to soften the icy storm brewing at its center. Roman stormed in, a folder clutched in his fist, his face carved from rage.

Servants froze mid-step. Silence dropped like a blade. Even the ticking clock seemed to hold its breath.

Damien lounged on the couch, a glass of water in hand, but his eyes sharpened as soon as he saw his brother. Emerald had just begun descending the wide marble staircase, the hem of her dress brushing against the polished steps. Her hand tightened around the railing when she saw the fury blazing in Roman’s eyes.

“Who touched my study last night?” Roman’s voice thundered, echoing against the marble walls.

No one answered. Heads bowed low. Servants shifted nervously, their breaths caught in their throats.

Roman slammed the folder onto the table, the sound ricocheting through the room. “A confidential document went missing. Do you fools understand what this means? Do you understand what I do to people who tamper with my things?”

The air thickened, suffocating.

Emerald swallowed hard but forced her voice to stay steady. “What document?”

Roman’s icy gaze snapped to her. “Don’t play dumb.”

Before she could press further, Vanessa’s honeyed voice cut through the silence like venom. “I…I saw Emerald near the study.”

The room pivoted toward her, shock rippling like a wave.

Emerald’s chest constricted. “That’s a lie. I wasn’t—”

“She was,” Vanessa pressed, feigning reluctance, her lashes lowering as if heavy with guilt. “I thought she was… curious. Maybe cleaning up. But now…” She sighed delicately. “Maybe she took it.”

A murmur broke among the servants, whispers of disbelief and pity.

Damien set his glass down with a sharp clink. “Enough. You’re accusing without proof.”

But Roman reached into the folder, pulling out a crumpled sheet. The missing file. He held it aloft before tossing it onto the marble table.

It had been found tucked inside Emerald’s own shawl.

Gasps broke through the room. Emerald’s blood iced. Her shawl. She hadn’t touched it since yesterday.

Her eyes flicked to Vanessa. The other woman wore sorrow like a mask, but the flicker of a smirk betrayed her satisfaction.

Emerald’s voice rang out, trembling but unbroken. “I didn’t put that there.”

Roman’s glare was lethal. “Then who did? My walls don’t hide secrets by themselves.”

Emerald’s pride flared. “I don’t care what you believe,” she said, louder now, defiance sparking in her chest. “But I didn’t steal from you.”

The hall went still.

No one, not even seasoned executives, had ever dared challenge Roman Thorne so directly.

His lips curved slowly into something dangerous. “All of you. Out.”

The staff scrambled, skirts and shoes echoing against marble as they fled. Vanessa lingered, her lips parting as if to protest, but one cold glance from Roman sent her fleeing as well.

Only Damien stayed seated, his eyes narrow with fury.

Roman stalked toward Emerald. “You think you can challenge me?”

She lifted her chin. “I won’t kneel for lies.”

In two strides, he was upon her, towering, his hand slamming against the wall beside her head. The thud reverberated through her bones. His scent—sharp cologne, whiskey, and danger—wrapped around her like a snare.

His voice dropped to a whisper, lethal in its softness. “Careful, Emerald. You’ll learn that defiance costs more than you can pay.”

Her pulse hammered, but she refused to look away. “Then send me the bill.”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, then something darker. His face inched closer, close enough that her breath hitched, close enough that for a heartbeat it felt like his lips might claim hers—not tenderly, but as punishment, a cruel test of power.

Emerald’s body went rigid, pride screaming at her not to flinch.

The door banged open.

Damien.

He stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, every line of his body radiating fury. “What the hell are you doing, Roman?”

The moment shattered. Roman jerked back, mask sliding into place, though the clench of his jaw betrayed restraint.

Damien strode forward, placing himself slightly in front of Emerald. “You’re not punishing her. You’re obsessed with her.”

“Watch your mouth,” Roman warned, his voice sharp.

“No,” Damien shot back, his voice steel. “You don’t want revenge anymore. You want her.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. Emerald’s breath caught. Roman’s fists curled at his sides. Damien’s words hung heavy, undeniable, setting fire to the air itself.

And far away, on foreign soil, a woman with iron in her spine and fire in her eyes booked a one-way flight. Helena Thorne. Once Ambrose’s wife. Once the woman who had walked away from the empire. She was returning, not for her ex-husba

nd, but for her sons.

And fate would ensure she crossed paths with Emerald.

The firestorm had only just begun.