The golden shackles of the Hawthorne name had never felt heavier.
After Sophia and the security detail fractured the midnight confrontation at Pier 42, Elias had been paraded back to his penthouse like a prisoner of war. There were no shouting matches—only the suffocating, silent execution of control. Sophia had left him locked behind his own doors, assuming the threat of total corporate termination would keep him compliant until the board met at noon.
She underestimated how little he cared about the crown.
At 5:30 AM, as the first light of dawn bled across the Manhattan skyline in bruised shades of violet and gray, Elias slipped past the guard at the service elevator. He was still wearing the midnight-navy tuxedo trousers and the stark blue tie, though his shirt was unbuttoned at the c
