Jack In The Box

ELARA POV

The rain in Seattle didn’t feel like a cleansing shower; it felt like lead. It soaked through my black wool coat, weighing me down until I thought my knees might actually give way on the muddy grass.

I stood alone at the edge of the grave. The crowd of "family friends" and business associates had already thinned out, scurrying away to their warm cars as soon as the priest finished the final prayer. They didn’t want to be associated with a sinking ship. They didn't want to be seen with the daughter of a man whose empire had crumbled into a mountain of debt overnight.

"Miss Thorne?"

I didn't turn around. I knew that voice. It was Mr. Henderson, my father’s longtime attorney. He was the only one who had stayed behind.

"The car is waiting, Elara," he said softly. "We should go. We have a lot to discuss, and this isn't the place for it."

"There’s nothing left to discuss, is there?" I asked, my voice sounding thin and hollow. I watched the cemetery workers begin to shovel dirt over the mahogany caskets. "The house is gone. The cars are gone. My father made sure of that before he… before they left."

Henderson sighed, the sound lost in the wind. "Not everything is gone. But your father’s will is… complicated. Especially given the debt the estate is currently carrying."

I finally turned to look at him. My hair was plastered to my cheeks, and my mascara was likely a disaster, but I didn't care. "Just tell me the truth. Am I homeless?"

"No," Henderson said, adjusting his umbrella. "But you are twenty. Under the terms of the trust—and given the liquidation of the main properties—you cannot access your remaining personal funds or the scholarship endowment unless you are under the supervision of a designated guardian until you turn twenty-five."

I stiffened. "A guardian? I’m an adult, Arthur."

"Technically, yes. But your father didn't trust you to handle the vultures currently circling the Thorne legacy. He appointed someone to oversee your living arrangements and your finances. If you refuse, the remaining assets will be frozen to pay off the primary creditors immediately."

I hugged my arms across my chest. "Who is it? My Aunt Margaret?"

Henderson shook his head, a strange look crossing his face. "No. It’s Alaric Vance."

The name hit me harder than the cold. I felt a sharp, familiar ache in my chest—one I had spent three years trying to bury. Alaric Vance. The man who had been my father’s shadow, his most brilliant protégé. The man who had started as an intern and ended up running half the firm before he left to start his own empire.

The man I used to follow around like a lost puppy when I was seventeen, back when I used to call him "Uncle Alaric" just to see him smirk.

"Alaric left the city years ago," I whispered. "He doesn't even like my father. They had a falling out."

"Alaric is the only one with enough liquidity to bridge the debt and the only one your father trusted to be 'mean enough' to protect you," Henderson explained. "He’s already in the city. He arrived this morning."

"I don't need a babysitter, Arthur. Especially not him."

"Then you’ll have to find a way to pay for your last two years of university on your own, along with the taxes on the remaining family land. Alaric is waiting."

I looked back at the grave one last time. I had no choice. I was a Thorne with a name that was now synonymous with bankruptcy, and my only lifeline was the man who had once been the center of my world.

The "temporary residence" wasn't a cozy apartment or a modest hotel. It was a glass-and-steel skyscraper in the heart of the financial district.

As Henderson’s car pulled up to the curb, I saw a sleek, matte-black SUV idling near the entrance. The rain was coming down in sheets now, blurring the lights of the city. My hands were shaking, and I tucked them under my thighs so Arthur wouldn't see.

"I'll leave you here, Elara," Henderson said, handing me a heavy brass key and a folder of documents. "He’s... expecting you."

"You're not coming in?" I asked, a sudden wave of panic hitting me.

"I have a flight to catch. Be brave, kid. He's fair."

I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking on the wet pavement. I felt small against the backdrop of the massive buildings. As I approached the glass doors of the lobby, the door of the black SUV opened.

A man stepped out.

He didn't use an umbrella. He didn't seem to care that the rain was ruining what looked like a three-thousand-dollar charcoal suit. He stood tall, his shoulders broad, his presence instantly commanding the space around him.

Alaric Vance hadn't changed, yet he was entirely different. His jawline was sharper, his expression more settled into a permanent mask of indifference. His dark hair was cut shorter than I remembered, pushed back away from a forehead that seemed perpetually creased with thought. He looked untouchable.

He didn't smile. He didn't offer a hug or even a warm greeting. He just stood there, waiting for me to close the distance.

I stopped a few feet away from him, my breath catching in my throat. Up close, he smelled like rain and something expensive—sandalwood and steel.

"You're late," he said. His voice was deeper than it used to be, a low rumble that vibrated through the damp air.

"I was at a funeral," I snapped, my grief momentarily replaced by a flare of irritation. "I didn't realize there was a schedule for mourning."

He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my shivering frame for a second too long before returning to my face. There was no pity in his gaze.

"The world doesn't stop because you're sad, Elara. Your father’s creditors certainly haven't," he said, stepping toward the entrance. He didn't wait for me to respond. He just held the door open with one hand, his other hand shoved deep into his pocket.

"Is that all you have to say to me after three years?" I asked, following him into the warm, silent lobby.

"I'm not here to be your friend, and I'm definitely not here to offer you platitudes," he said calmly, walking toward the elevator bank. He pressed the button for the top floor. He turned to face me, his height forcing me to tilt my head back.

"Are you still going to make me call you Uncle Alaric?" I asked, the old name feeling like a challenge on my tongue.

His eyes darkened, a small muscle jumping in his jaw. He leaned in just an inch, enough for me to feel the heat radiating from him. "You can call me whatever you want, Elara. But inside this building, you’ll call me your guardian. And you’ll follow my rules."

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Alaric stepped inside and waited, his dark eyes fixed on mine.

I hesitated for a moment, looking back at the rainy street. My old life was out there, buried in the mud. Inside this elevator was the man who held the keys to my future—a man who looked at me like I was a task to be managed rather than a person.

I stepped into the elevator. Alaric reached out and pressed the button for the penthouse. As the doors closed, he moved to the opposite corner, leaving a wide, cold space between us.

He didn't look at me again for the rest of the ride. He just stood there, perfectly still, his reflection in the polished metal of the elevator looking like a stranger I used to know.

The elevator climbed higher and higher, leaving the ground behind. When the doors finally opened directly into a sprawling, modern living area, Alaric stepped out first. He walked over to a marble kitchen island, picked up a set of silver keys, and tossed them onto the counter.

The sound of the metal hitting the stone echoed in the quiet room.

"Your room is down the hall to the left," Alaric said, heading toward a large glass-walled office without looking back. "There’s food in the fridge. Don't wake me up in the morning. I have a meeting at six."

He walked into the office and shut the heavy oak door behind him. The click of the lock sounded final.