HIS TO COMMAND

Chapter 2

A House Full of Ghosts

Some people say time heals.

Roman Thorne never believed that lie.

He had seen time do nothing but stretch out pain—like an old scar you keep reopening because you don’t know what to do without the sting. He stood by the window of his father’s study, arms crossed, coffee going cold in his hand. The sky outside was a dull, washed-out gray, and the city below moved like it always did—fast, impatient, blind to the grief crawling through its veins.

He hated this city.

Every corner of it reminded him of things he’d rather forget. The hospital where his mother had died. The courtroom where he sat alone, watching the Davises pretend to be victims. The quiet burial where his father couldn’t stand without holding onto Roman’s shoulder. The old man was aged ten years in one.

The study still smelled like him—leather and whiskey. Roman hadn’t changed a thing since his father moved into assisted care. Sometimes he told himself he left it untouched out of respect. But really, it was because he didn’t want to face how empty it felt now.

The silence pressed on his chest, heavy and familiar.

He used to think revenge would fix that.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

She had arrived just after 8 a.m.—on time, like he asked.

Emerald Davis. The one girl he never wanted to see again and now the only face he’d be seeing for a long while. She walked in like she still had pride tucked somewhere behind her ribs, even with her life in pieces. He hated how her presence filled a room. How the anger in her eyes almost looked like strength.

He was supposed to hate her. She was the daughter of the man who destroyed everything.

But something about her made it hard to breathe.

“You’re on time,” he’d said, trying to sound cold, distant.

“Maybe you’ll survive this.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She just stared at him with that quiet fire like she knew this wasn’t the end of her story. Like she was planning something.

He let her in any way.

Let her see the inside of his world.

Let her step into his trap.

“Is this how you cope now? Humiliating people?”

The voice came from behind him hours later.

Roman didn’t turn. “What do you want, Damien?”

His younger brother leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his shirt half-buttoned like always. Damien never followed rules—not even his own. He had their mother’s eyes. Soft. Questioning. And that annoyed Roman more than he’d admit.

“I just think if Dad could see all this,” Damien said, “he’d ask if this is really justice or just... grief in disguise.”

Roman clenched his jaw. “Don’t talk like you understand.”

“I understand enough. You were angry, Roman. I was angry too. But you’re letting it rot you now.”

Roman finally turned to him. “He took everything, Damien. And now his daughter will feel what that means.”

Damien sighed, his voice quieter now. “She didn’t sign those papers. She didn’t steal from us.”

“She sat in that courtroom and called our father a liar.”

“She was defending hers.”

“That makes it worse.”

They stared at each other for a moment. The silence was sharp, but not unfamiliar. This had been the shape of their relationship for years now—fragments of closeness buried under blame, guilt, and words left unsaid.

Damien looked at the study once more before walking out. “Just don’t lose yourself trying to hurt someone else.”

Roman didn’t respond.

He didn’t have an answer.

By mid-afternoon, he watched her through the monitor. She was in the laundry room, fumbling with the washing machine like it was a spaceship. The sight would’ve been funny if it didn’t feel so sad.

She looked... lost.

And not the kind of lost people fake to get sympathy. The real kind—the kind that leaves you staring at a spinning cycle while your whole world sinks beneath you.

She sat down eventually, wiped her palms on her jeans, and lowered her head into her hands. Her shoulders trembled slightly. He watched her inhale and hold it, like she was bargaining with her own tears.

Roman should’ve felt satisfaction.

He didn’t.

Instead, he felt a sharp pang in his chest—unwelcome and inconvenient.

She reminded him too much of him.

Of those nights in the hospital, sitting beside his mother’s bed, praying for a miracle while pretending he didn’t hate his life. The nights he slept in waiting rooms, cold and angry, wondering how a family like theirs had fallen so far.

Maybe that was the problem.

Emerald Davis didn’t belong to the world he wanted to punish.

She belonged to the world he used to live in. The one that died with his mother.

Later that evening, he passed her in the hallway.

Their eyes met briefly.

Her gaze wasn’t pleading or broken—it was tired. That kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones. She moved past him in silence, the scent of lavender clinging faintly to her skin.

He almost stopped her.

Almost said something.

But pride is a terrible thing.

That night, he stood alone on the balcony, looking out at the city lights. The wind was soft. The sky, endless.

He lit a cigarette but didn’t smoke it. Just held it between his fingers like it might anchor him.

From somewhere in the servant's quarters, a light flicked off. Hers.

He wondered what she was thinking.

Was she planning to escape? Crying? Cursing his name?

Part of him hoped she would fight.

Because something about her giving up—that scared him more than he was willing to admit.

Maybe revenge wasn’t what he needed after all.

Maybe he was just waiting for

Someone else to feel the weight he carried.

And now, she does.

But somehow, instead of victory, all he felt... was hollow.