Chapter 7

The way she hadn’t flinched when he cornered her.

The way she’d whispered I don’t give two fucks about you with that calm defiance that made his blood heat.

She was everywhere, on his mind, in the news, on the lips of everyone who mattered.

And it infuriated him.

By noon, society had gone feral. At private clubs, over martini lunches, in smoky cigar lounges, people whispered with disbelief.

“Roman Thorne? With her?”

“She’s a Sinclair, but really, Elena?”

“The brat who got kicked out of boarding school?”

“She’ll embarrass him in a week. He’ll chew her up and spit her out.”

“Or maybe she’ll ruin him first.”

The Sinclair estate overflowed with reporters camped at the gates.

The Thorne offices were no better, paparazzi waiting for a glimpse of the elusive billionaire who had never once let the media control his story.

Roman, of course, remained silent. Elena, predictably, didn’t issue a statement either. And their silence only fueled the fire.

That afternoon, Elena slipped into her “secret space,” away from the chaos. Jace was already waiting, arms crossed, grin sharp.

“You’ve broken the internet,” he teased, waving his phone. “Do you have any idea how many people want to strangle you right now?”

Elena smirked, sinking into a chair. “Good. Let them choke.”

But Jace studied her too closely, catching the flicker in her eyes. “And him? The devil himself? What’s he like up close?”

Her smirk faltered just slightly, just enough to betray the memory of Roman’s nearness, his voice low in her ear, the way his presence had pressed into her like a storm she couldn’t ignore.

“He’s exactly what you think,” Elena muttered finally. “Cold. Arrogant. Controlling.”

“Mm,” Jace hummed, not buying it. “And yet, you can’t stop talking about him.”

She glared, throwing a cushion at his head, but her laugh was hollow. Because he was right.

Roman Thorne had burned into her thoughts, and now the whole world was watching as their names were tied together.

What none of them knew, what no headline could capture, was that this marriage wasn’t the end of a story. It was the beginning of a war.

Roman left the office earlier than usual that afternoon. Meetings had been rescheduled, contracts delayed, he had only one priority today.

The signing.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t desire. It was order. Control. He’d told Elena yesterday that they would sign today, and when Roman Thorne made a declaration, it was law.

His black car pulled into the Sinclair estate, its gates opening like the obedient jaws of a beast.

Inside, the mansion stood in polished glory, every brick screaming old money and fragile appearances.

He expected Elena waiting, poised, reluctant maybe, but present. Instead, her absence hung like smoke the moment he stepped inside.

“Where is she?” Roman’s voice was calm, but sharp enough to slice.

Mrs. Sinclair exchanged a glance with her husband, nervousness flickering. “She’s… in her room, I believe. I’ll fetch her.”

Minutes passed. Then more. Silence stretched until Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat. “Strange. She isn’t answering.”

Roman’s brows lowered, his body still, though his veins ran hot. “Show me.”

He followed them upstairs, every step heavy with his restrained fury. When Mrs. Sinclair threw open the door to Elena’s room, her gasp echoed through the hall.

The room was empty. The bed neatly made, the vanity untouched, curtains drawn. Elena’s perfume lingered faintly in the air, proof she’d been here. But now, gone.

Mrs. Sinclair pressed a hand to her chest. “Where… where could she have gone?”

Mr. Sinclair frowned, trying for calm. “Perhaps she stepped out for some air...”

“She knew what today was,” Roman cut in, his voice low and dangerous.

His hands flexed at his sides, every muscle straining against the urge to destroy something. “She knew, and she still ran.”

Mrs. Sinclair shook her head frantically. “She wouldn’t...”

“She would,” Roman bit out, his mind replaying her smirk, her words, I don’t give two fucks about you. This was her rebellion. Her challenge.

And it worked.

Because Roman was burning.

He left the Sinclairs flustered, muttering about calling her, about searching.

His steps were measured as he descended the stairs, but inside he was a storm. Elena thought she was clever, thought vanishing would unnerve him.

She had no idea.

When Roman Thorne hunted, nothing escaped.

Across the city, Elena lounged in her secret space still with Jace, cross legged on the couch with a laptop balanced on her knees.

Screens glowed with streams of encrypted data, the sound of bass heavy music thudding faintly from the underground club two floors below.

“You’re awfully calm for a bride who’s supposed to be signing her life away today,” Jace teased, tossing a soda can between his hands.

Elena smirked, not looking up from the screen. “Calm is my specialty.”

Her phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

It tumbled across the couch from the force of the vibrations. Dozens of messages stacked on the lock screen, her mother, her father, frantic, desperate. Calls rang and rang, unanswered.

Jace raised his brows. “Uh oh. Guess they noticed you’re gone.”

Elena finally picked it up, scrolling through with a careless flick of her thumb.

Elena, where are you?

This isn’t funny, darling, come home immediately.

We agreed, today. Don’t embarrass us.

Then another, harsher.

You think you can humiliate me? Sign. Today. Or you’ll regret it.

The sender’s number was unknown. But Elena didn’t need a name. She knew exactly who it was.

Roman.

Her lips curved into a wicked little smile, her pulse quickening at the thought of him pacing, furious, searching.

He wanted her trapped, submissive. Instead, she was here, out of reach, untouchable.

She leaned back, locking eyes with Jace as she smirked down at her phone. “Let him threaten. Let them all panic.”

Her thumb hovered over the screen, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. The silence was enough.

Roman wanted control. He wanted submission. And right now, Elena Sinclair gave him neither.