Heir of Montville

#Jake’s POV They say glass houses don’t hide secrets. Ours was the exception. I sat at the head of the Thorne dining table—polished oak as long as a confession and twice as heavy. The chandelier above glinted like the judgment of ancestors, casting golden halos across porcelain plates that no one touched. The estate—what Montville whispered about as “The Glass House”—looked pristine. Sleek architecture, floor-to-ceiling windows framing perfectly trimmed gardens, a staff that moved like ghosts. On the outside, it gleamed. Inside? Cracks. My mother, Margaret Thorne, sat at the opposite end like a queen on a throne made of thorns. Eyes sharp, spine rigid. She wore her pearls like armor and held her wine glass like a verdict. Dinner had barely begun, but the battle lines were already drawn. “I’m not asking for your blessing,” I said, my voice calm but tight. “This isn’t a negotiation.” Her lips curled in amusement—if you could call it that. “Then I won’t waste time pretending. If you keep seeing that girl, you won’t have the board’s support. And you certainly won’t have mine.” There it was. Not a warning. A promise. “Elena is not just ‘that girl,’” I snapped. “She comes from one of Montville’s oldest families. She’s smart, grounded, honest.” “Her family,” she said slowly, swirling her wine, “has reputation. She doesn’t. Not after what Patricia Blackwell’s been saying.” I stiffened. “Patricia? You’re trusting the town’s biggest gossip, whose son has been stalking Elena like a starving dog for years?” “Others are talking too,” she said, cool and detached. “Even Mayor Buckle raised concerns.” I let out a bitter chuckle and rubbed at my temple. “Of course he did. He’s practically in Patricia’s pocket. You think I’m the one jeopardizing our name? No, Mother, it’s this desperate clinging to a legacy built on the backs of favors and backroom deals that’s going to ruin us.” Her gaze sharpened. “Watch your mouth, Jacob.” There it was—Jacob. Not Jake. Not her son. A subject. A soldier. At the center of the table, my father finally stirred. Thomas Thorne rarely interrupted unless it mattered. He placed his fork down with the soft clink of someone about to say something irreversible. “Maybe this isn’t just about Elena,” he said. “Maybe this is about succession.” The word dropped like a blade. I turned toward him. “Succession?” “She’s afraid,” he continued gently, his voice low but heavy with meaning, “that you’re leading with your heart when the family needs a strategist.” Margaret didn’t deny it. She didn’t need to. I stood abruptly, the chair scraping behind me like a scream. “I didn’t come back to Montville to be your puppet. I came here to build something—something that matters. A future with Elena. A business that’s mine. Not just a carbon copy of what you two preserved in amber.” My mother rose slowly, chin high. “Then I suggest you ask Elena about her real role in Montville before you drag our name through the mud.” I narrowed my eyes. “Say it. If there’s something I should know, say it now.” But she didn’t. She simply lifted her glass again, her silence sharp as broken crystal. “What you do next will prove everything.” I glanced at my father. He looked back at me with something between exhaustion and empathy. A quiet understanding. He’d fought this war once too. I left. Not just the table, but the damn house. As I passed the long hall, the ancestors watched from their gilded frames. Generations of Thorne men staring down with judgment in their eyes. Their portraits told a lie of unity and power. I knew the truth. Every empire had its rot. Ours just wore silk. --- Later That Night I drove fast. Through Montville’s winding roads, headlights chasing shadows. The town glimmered below the estate, quiet and oblivious—like a stage before the curtain rises on a tragedy. My phone buzzed. Elena. > Elena: You alive? Word is dinner was... volcanic. I pulled over at the next parking curb I smirked. Montville’s rumor mill had faster legs than our local postman. > Me: Mom thinks you're a bad omen. Says marrying you means I lose the Thorne credibility and bring ruin to the business and empire. > Elena: Should I cackle now or wait until midnight? > Me: Wait till I bring you the cloak. > Elena: Get over here already. I hesitated, thumbs hovering. I wanted to. Hell, I needed her more than I wanted to admit. But my mother’s cryptic warning clung to me like fog on my skin. > Me: Soon. Need to find out why Buckle suddenly thinks he's my matchmaker. I hit send, rev and zoomed off The truth was, something didn’t add up. The sudden political concern, Ted’s obsession with Elena, Patricia’s whisper campaign... Montville wasn’t just meddling. It was maneuvering. My thoughts were squirrels fighting over acorns in my skull, I drove passed ‘the Love Lair’ Stop Reverse --- Elena’s Cottage When I finally pulled into her driveway, the porch light flicked on. She stood there—barefoot in leggings and a sweatshirt, hair a halo of curls, smirking like she already knew I’d come crawling. “Took you long enough,” she said, arms folded. “I had to fight my way out. A poodle attacked.” She arched a brow. “A poodle?” “Ferocious. Had a diamond collar and a thirst for blood.” She rolled her eyes. “Get in here, Thorne.” I crossed the porch and pulled her into my arms. The tension in my chest cracked like dry earth under rain. She smelled like lavender and safety. She melted into me, and I realized I hadn’t really breathed until now. “I missed you,” I murmured. “You saw me yesterday.” “Still too long.” Our lips met—slow, lingering, and full of every word I hadn’t said at dinner. When we broke apart, she leaned her forehead against mine. “What happened?” she asked quietly. “My mother called you a liability. Said you’re hiding something.” Elena froze. “And you?” she whispered. I lifted her chin. “I trust you. But if there’s something I need to know…” She swallowed hard. “I’ll tell you. Just… not yet.” --- Elsewhere in Montville Ted Blackwell paced his study like a man with too much time and too much wine. Shadows danced across the antique walls. His mother, Patricia, perched at her vanity, reapplying lipstick like it was war paint. “She’s already chosen him,” she said. Ted’s fist clenched. “Then we make her regret it.” In the corner, Mayor Buckle sat rigid, looking like he’d swallowed bad whiskey. “If Jake gets suspicious—” “He won’t,” Ted barked. Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “He’s smarter than you think. We need leverage.” “On Elena?” Buckle croaked. “What if there’s nothing?” “There’s always something,” Ted said coldly. “We just haven’t dug deep enough.” --- Back in Elena’s Bedroom She lay curled against me, breathing soft and even, lost in dreams. I stared at the ceiling, one hand tracing idle circles on her back, the other curled in thought. My mother’s threats. Buckle’s sudden concern. Ted Blackwell’s creep factor. They were all circling. But they’d underestimated one thing—I didn’t fold. I’d carve my own legacy, or I’d burn the old one to ash. Either way, I wasn’t letting go of her. Not without a fight. Let them come. I was Jake Thorne. And I don’t scare easy.