All Chapters of The heart Beneath the Thorn : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The silence of Emilia’s apartment was the kind that seeped into her bones. No ringing phones. No echo of Grace’s heels clicking on marble. No Max calling her name from down the hall. Just quiet.It was small—two rooms and a kitchenette—with beige walls and old hardwood floors that creaked when she walked too quickly. Leo, her loyal gray tabby, had claimed the windowsill as his throne, watching the world pass below with twitching whiskers and sleepy eyes.The past few weeks since she left Max’s house had been… gray. Not stormy. Not sunny. Just quiet. She worked a part-time nursing job at a nearby retirement home, tending to aging bodies and lonely hearts, listening to stories from another generation. Some days, she liked the slow pace. It was calm. Predictable.Other days, she felt like a ghost.No one knew her history here. No one knew the storm she’d walked out of, or the ache that still lingered like a bruise inside her chest.That morning, she woke up to soft light spilling through

It started innocently enough—Emilia wasn’t even sure when the casual hello turned into something more. Maybe it was the way Johnny looked at her when he visited the ER a month ago, just passing through, needing to drop off a charity donation for one of the kids’ funds. Or maybe it was when they’d shared a long, lingering conversation in the staff parking lot that turned into coffee. Then dinner. Then another dinner. Then… fire.Johnny hadn’t changed much. Still gorgeous, still cocky, but softer somehow. There was a new depth in his voice when he spoke to her, like life had weathered him just enough to make him interesting. Not broken—just beautifully cracked in all the places that made her want to see what was underneath.They’d fallen into a rhythm. Friday nights turned sacred. Movies at her place, laughter echoing in the small space, limbs tangled under sheets that smelled of skin and secrets. It wasn’t a relationship. She made that clear.“I’m not ready,” she’d said one night, curl

The only thing sharper than the knives on the table were the words waiting to be unsheathed.Emilia had wanted something quiet. A little candlelight. A little normalcy. Just one night where the past didn’t show up dressed in tailored suits and whiskey smiles.She wore a black satin blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, her dark hair pulled back in a low bun, soft gold hoops catching the dim, ambient light of La Violetta. Beside her, Johnny scrolled through his phone at the host stand while she ran her fingertips nervously along the leather strap of her purse.“I made the reservation under Carter,” Johnny said, his tone polite but firm. “Should be for two. Seven-thirty.”The hostess tapped at her screen, then gave a small frown. “I’m sorry, sir. It looks like the reservation was canceled earlier today.”“That’s impossible,” Johnny muttered, eyes narrowing.Emilia’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s okay. Let’s just—”“Emilia?”The sound of her name, spoken with a mix of surpri

The first punch landed like thunder in a cathedral.No one breathed. Not the valet cowering behind the podium, not the older couple watching through the restaurant window, and certainly not Emilia Torres, who stood frozen just feet away—caught in the pull of a nightmare she never asked to relive.Rain began to fall.It wasn’t poetic. It was cold, sharp, irritating. Not a romantic drizzle, but the kind of piercing rain that soaked through your skin and made every exposed nerve scream. Fitting, really. Nothing about this was romantic.“Max, don’t—” Emilia gasped, but the words were meaningless now.Max Carter had already launched himself at Johnny.Johnny met him halfway.The two men collided like a dam bursting. Johnny’s back slammed into the hood of a Mercedes, and he grunted as Max’s fist connected squarely with his jaw. The sickening crack of bone-on-bone echoed across the parking lot.Johnny recovered fast. He pushed Max off with a growl and threw a punch that caught Max in the sto

Some women healed with wine.Others with yoga.Emilia preferred dressing rooms, retail tags, and the dull thud of her credit card hitting the counter.“Tell me again why this place doesn’t serve champagne?” Maya asked, flopping dramatically onto the velvet loveseat outside the changing stalls. “We’re surrounded by ten-thousand-dollar dresses, and I’m parched.”Emilia laughed, the sound bright and brief. “Because rich people hate fun.”They were inside Maison LaRue, one of the most expensive couture boutiques in the city—a sleek, gold-accented haven of silk, attitude, and scandalously high price tags. The kind of place that smelled like vanilla, ambition, and vaguely concealed judgment.Emilia was trying on a slate-blue, floor-length gown with draped sleeves and an open back. She emerged from the dressing room with a hesitant smile. “Too much?”Maya sat up, eyes wide. “Too much? You look like a goddess who just descended to ruin a man’s whole empire.”Emilia turned to the mirror. The r