CHAPTER 3

ELARA POV

The fourth night at the penthouse felt different. The initial shock of the funeral had worn off, replaced by a dull, aching reality. I had spent most of my days in the study, digging through the cardboard boxes Alaric’s team had salvaged. Every time I touched an old photo or smelled the faint lavender scent of my mother’s scarves, I felt like I was breaking all over again.

Alaric was rarely there. He left before the sun came up and returned long after I had retreated to my room. Our only communication consisted of brief, functional texts: *“Dinner is in the warmer,”* or *“The driver will pick you up at three.”*

I was headed to the kitchen to dispose of a empty takeout container when I heard his voice. It was coming from his office. The heavy oak door wasn't fully latched, leaving a thin sliver of light spilling onto the hallway carpet.

"I don't care about the sentimental value, Marcus," Alaric’s voice was cold, professional, and terrifyingly final. "The market is peaking. If we wait another month, the property value will drop by ten percent. Sell the Thorne estate. Everything. The house, the orchard, the guest cottage."

I froze. My breath hitched in my throat, and the plastic container in my hand crinkled loudly.

"Yes, I know she’s living with me," Alaric continued, oblivious to my presence. "But she’s twenty. She needs to understand that her father’s debts don't pay themselves. The house is just wood and stone. It’s an asset, nothing more. Close the deal by Friday."

The sound of him hanging up the phone echoed in the quiet hallway. I didn't think. I didn't plan. I pushed the door open, the heavy wood swinging back with a groan.

Alaric was sitting behind a massive glass desk, a tablet in one hand and a pen in the other. He didn't look up immediately. He just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I told you the office was off-limits, Elara."

"You’re selling the house," I said. My voice was trembling, and I hated it. I wanted to sound strong, but I felt like that little girl who used to cry when he left after dinner.

Alaric finally looked up. His eyes were tired, but they remained as hard as flint. "It’s not your house anymore. It belongs to the creditors. I’m simply managing the liquidation to ensure you have enough for your tuition."

"It’s my home, Alaric! My mother’s roses are in that garden. My height marks are still on the kitchen doorframe. You can't just... just erase it all because of 'market peaks.'"

He set the tablet down and leaned back, crossing his arms. The movement made the fabric of his shirt strain against his shoulders. "The 'roses' won't pay for your senior year. The 'height marks' won't keep you out of bankruptcy court. I am trying to save what’s left of your future, and that requires getting rid of the past."

"You’re cold," I whispered, a tear finally escaping and rolling down my cheek. I stepped closer to the desk, my hands clenched at my sides. "Is this why my father trusted you? Because you have no heart? Because you can just switch off your emotions and treat my life like a spreadsheet?"

Alaric stood up. He didn't rush, but the sheer height of him made the room feel suddenly cramped. He walked around the desk, stopping just inches from me. The scent of sandalwood and expensive ink was overwhelming.

"I have a heart, Elara," he said, his voice dangerously low. "It’s just a practical one. Something you clearly haven't developed yet."

"I hate you," I sobbed, the grief and frustration boiling over. I reached out and pushed his chest, a weak, useless gesture. "You're taking away the only thing I have left of them. You’re supposed to protect me, not strip me bare!"

Alaric didn't move. He didn't even flinch when I pushed him. He just looked down at me, his expression unreadable. For a second, I thought I saw a flicker of something—regret, maybe? Or pity? But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"You’re being childish," he said. The words were flat, devoid of any warmth.

"I'm not being childish! I'm grieving!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You probably didn't even care when my father died. You just saw it as a business opportunity."

Alaric’s hand shot out, his fingers gripping my upper arm. It wasn't painful, but it was firm, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were no longer tired; they were burning.

"Don't ever assume what I felt for your father," he hissed. "I spent ten years fixing his mistakes. I’m spending my nights now making sure you don't end up on the street. If that makes me the villain in your little drama, then so be it. But the house is being sold. End of discussion."

I tried to pull away, but his grip held. I looked at his hand on my arm, then back at his face. His jaw was so tight I thought it might break.

"Is that all I am to you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper through the tears. "A debt to be managed? A mistake to be fixed?"

Alaric let go of my arm as if he’d been burned. He stepped back, putting the distance between us again. He straightened his cuffs, his movements precise and cold.

"You are a Thorne," he said, turning his back to me to look out the window at the city lights. "And right now, that name is a liability. My job is to make sure you survive it. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You're wrong, Alaric," I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "You're not protecting me. You're just making sure there's nothing left for me to come back to."

I turned and walked out of the office, not waiting for him to reply. I didn't go to the kitchen for water anymore. I went straight to my room and locked the door.

I sat on the floor, leaning my back against the wood, and let the tears come. The penthouse felt larger than ever, a hollow glass box where memories went to die. Through the wall, I heard the muffled sound of Alaric’s office door closing.

I stayed there on the floor for hours, watching the moon move across the sky. I realized then that Alaric Vance didn't just want to manage my life. He wanted to rebuild it in his own image—cold, efficient, and lonely.

He was my guardian, my savior, and the man who was systematically destroying the only world I had ever known. And the worst part wasn't the loss of the house. It was the realization that even while I hated him for what he was doing, I was still looking for his shadow in the hallway, hoping he would tell me it was all just a bad dream.

But Alaric didn't do dreams. He did reality. And my reality was a charcoal-grey room in a building that touched the clouds, owned by a man who treated my heart like a bad investment.

The silence of the penthouse settled back in, more suffocating than before. Tomorrow, the boxes would be moved. Tomorrow, the "For Sale" sign would go up. And tomorrow, I would have to look at Alaric across the breakfast table and pretend that he hadn't just broken the last piece of me.

I stood up and crawled into the bed, the silk sheets feeling like ice against my skin. I stared at the door, waiting for a sound that never came. Alaric Vance was a man of his word, and his word was final.