Chapter 7

Elias Thorne

I sat in the front row of the Advanced Torts lecture, my skin crawling. I could feel the professor’s eyes darting to me every few minutes—no doubt checking to see if I was paying attention.

William hadn't just put a collar on me; he’d turned the entire university into my cage.

"Mr. Thorne?" Professor Gable’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "Perhaps you’d like to offer your analysis on the liability of the architect in the Bridgeview collapse?"

I sat up, my jaw tight. "The liability isn't just in the materials, Professor. It’s in the arrogance of the designer. They think they can control the elements, but they forget that even steel has a breaking point when the pressure is applied in the right spot."

Gable blinked, surprised by the bitterness in my tone. "A... creative interpretation, Elias. But correct on the legal merits."

I didn't hear the rest of the lecture. I spent the hour sketching jagged, sharp lines in the margin of my notebook, my mind racing.

I hate William.

I hate my mom.

I just need to find a way to make them hate each other and this whole marriage will be over.

By the time I returned to the estate, the sun was sinking. I didn't wait for Marcus to open the door,I hopped out and headed straight for the kitchen.

I needed something, anything to ground me before the inevitable evening review.

I stopped short in the doorway.

William wasn't in his study. He was in the kitchen, standing by the dark marble island. He had discarded his suit jacket, and his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was holding a knife, slicing a green apple into perfect, translucent slivers.

He didn't look up, but his voice was like a low vibration in the quiet room.

"You were three minutes late to your seminar this afternoon, Elias. I assume there was a delay in the hallway. Something important?"

"I took the stairs," I snapped, walking toward the fridge. "I figured I should get used to climbing, since you’re so intent on making my life an uphill battle."

"Movement is good for the mind," he murmured. He picked up a sliver of the apple and held it out toward me. It was a strange, intimate gesture that made the air in the room suddenly feel too thin to breathe. "Try this. It’s crisp."

I looked at the apple, then at him. His dark eyes were fixed on me, unreadable and heavy. I didn't take the fruit. I stepped closer, closing the gap until the heat radiating from him was palpable.

"Do you ever stop?" I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of rage and something I couldn't identify. "Do you ever just... exist without a plan? Without a schedule? Without trying to fix everyone around you? Or ensuring that everything is precise?"

William set the knife down on the marble with a soft, final thud. He turned fully toward me, his lean, athletic frame looming over me.

"Chaos is a luxury for those who don't have legacies to protect, Elias. Your mother trusts me to keep this house standing. That includes you."

"I don't want to be kept standing!" I shouted, the sound echoing off the cold glass walls.

"I want to feel like my father’s son, not your latest acquisition!"

I moved to push past him, but William’s hand shot out, catching my arm. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute.

He spun me around, pinning me against the edge of the island. The marble was cold against my lower back, but William was a wall of heat in front of me.

"Your father is a memory," William said, his voice dropping to that terrifyingly smooth, low rasp. He leaned in until our foreheads were almost touching. I could see the fine lines around his eyes, the sheer focus of a man who never missed a detail.

"I am the reality. And the reality is that you are drowning in your own spite because you’re afraid that if you stop fighting me, you’ll have to feel how much you actually like the structure I provide."

"I don't like anything about you," I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

William’s gaze dropped to my lips for a heartbeat—a predatory, calculated look that made my knees feel like water. His thumb brushed against my wrist, right over my jumping pulse.

"Liar," he whispered.

The front door opened, the sound of heels clicking on the marble foyer breaking the spell.

William released me instantly, stepping back and picking up the knife as if we had been discussing the weather.

"Elias? William? Are you in there?" my mother’s voice called out, sounding exhausted but commanding as ever.

"In the kitchen, Claire," William answered, his voice perfectly steady. He didn't even look at me as he went back to his apple.

"Elias was just telling me about his torts lecture."

I stood there, my skin tingling where he had touched me, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. I looked at the back of his head, at the rigid, perfect line of his shoulders, and felt a surge of pure, unadulterated terror.

My mother swept into the kitchen, the scent of her perfume cutting through the lingering tension like a blade.

"There you both are," she said, setting her designer tote on the island.

She walked straight to William, and I watched with a knot in my stomach as he leaned down to receive her kiss on the cheek.

"I take it the first full day of the new went well?"

"Productive," William said. He offered her a sliver of the apple he’d been cutting. The hand that had just been pinning me to the counter was now the picture of gentlemanly grace.

"Elias was just sharing his thoughts on architectural liability. He’s finding the... practical applications of his studies."

Claire turned to me, a smile on her lips.

"I’m glad to hear it, Elias. I know this hasn't been easy, but seeing the two of you actually talking… means a lot to me."

"We weren't talking, Mother," I said, my voice sounding more ragged than I intended. I moved to the other side of the island, putting as much distance between myself and William’s heat as possible.

"We were debating the merits of a cage versus a brace. William prefers the latter. He thinks it’s more structural."

Claire’s smile faltered, her protective instincts flaring. She looked between us, her eyes sharp. "Elias, please. Not tonight. I’ve just spent six hours in a boardroom with Barret. I need peace in this house."

William’s expression didn't change at the mention of his brother, but I noticed his grip on the knife tightened just enough to turn his knuckles white. "Barret is a traditionalist, Claire. He’s uncomfortable with change. I’ll handle him."

"He’s not just uncomfortable, William. He’s suspicious," she replied, reaching for the water William had poured.

"He asked why Elias wasn't at the family brunch on Sunday. I had to tell him he was under the weather, but Barret has a way of sniffing out a lie."

She turned back to me, her gaze pleading. "Elias, I need you to be at the gala on Friday. Not just there, but present."

"So that’s it?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping me. "I’m not just a student anymore; I’m a prop for the Vance family theater? Does my contract include a script, or should I just improvise the part of the 'happy son'?"

"It’s not a script, Elias. It’s a reality," William intervened, his voice dropping back into that low tone he often uses.

He turned to my mother, his tone shifting to something softer, more reassuring. "He’ll be there, Claire. And he’ll be perfect. I’ll make sure of it."

The way he said I'll make sure of it sent a shiver straight down my spine. It wasn't a promise to my mother; it was a challenge directed entirely at me.

"Good," Claire sighed, leaning against the counter. "I’m going to change. I’ll see you both at dinner."

She walked out, her heels clicking away until the house returned to its heavy, curated silence.

“What makes you think I'll be there?” I dared, anger rising in me.

"The gala isn't a suggestion, Elias. It’s a requirement. You’ll wear a black suit. And you will stay by my side."

"Or what?" I challenged, stepping back into his space. "You'll freeze my accounts? Change the locks?"

William stepped closer, his presence once again swallowing the light in the room. He didn't touch me this time, but he leaned in until I could feel the scent of him.

"Or you’ll find out exactly what happens when I stop being constructive,'" he whispered.

He left the apple on the counter and walked out, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I looked down at the perfectly sliced fruit. It was beautiful, perfect, just like him.

And as I stood there in the quiet, I realized that for the first time in my life, I wasn't just angry. I was mesmerized by the very man I was supposed to destroy.