All Chapters of He is.... Not Him: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The Thorne family estate felt different after the divorce. Emptier, quieter, and yet somehow less oppressive for Liam. With his mother gone, the constant pressure to be something he wasn't vanished. He could breathe. He spent his days in the sun-drenched conservatory, a space his mother had always hated, now converted into his personal studio. Canvases, cameras, and the scent of oil paint and fixative filled the air. Julian, now the adult burdened with the weight of his imminent future at AethelburgCorporation , moved through the house like a ghost. He was the heir to a kingdom his mother had told him was his birthright, but it felt more like a gilded prison. The hollow feeling he'd carried since childhood had only grown, a void his academic successes and his father's proud nods could not fill. One afternoon, he passed by the open doors of the conservatory. He heard his brother's voice—not the polite, guarded tone he used with the rest of the

The first thing Julian Thorne was aware of was the sound of birds. It was a cheerful, foreign sound, not the usual muffled hum of city traffic twelve stories below that greeted him in his penthouse. Then, the warm rays of the sun on his face, a sensation so unfamiliar it felt like a dream. He opened his eyes, blinking against the gentle light filtering through unfamiliar curtains.Something was wrong.This was not his bedroom. The ceiling was low, painted a soft cream instead of stark white. The sheets, though clean, smelled of a floral detergent, not his own crisp, unscented linen. The pillow was softer, less supportive. He sat up quickly, the movement abrupt, his heart giving a sudden, hard pound of panic against his ribs. The empty space beside him in the small bed was cold. He was alone."Evelyn?" he called out, his voice rough and gravelly with sle

The next morning, we stood on a sunbaked airfield, the vast Australian sky stretching endlessly above us. Strapped tightly into a tandem harness, I felt the heavy weight of the parachute on my back and the even heavier, solid presence of Julian behind me. The engine of the small plane roared deafeningly in my ears, a violent counterpoint to the frantic, hammering rhythm of my own heart. I was a mess of conflicting sensations—terrified of the impending fall, yet utterly thrilled by the promise of it.Julian’s hands were on me, not in possession, but in preparation. He checked the straps of my harness for what felt like the third time, his fingers moving with a steady, mechanical surety that was somehow calming."Nervous?" he shouted, his voice barely cutting through the engine's din and the wind whipping at the open door.I could only manage a jerky

The flight back from Australia was steeped in a heavy, thoughtful silence. The memory of our fight—the harsh words on the sunlit street, the raw, trembling confession on the park bench—hung between us like a specter. But it wasn't a hostile quiet. It was the kind of silence that settles after a storm has passed, the air cleansed and charged with a new, fragile understanding. Julian held my hand the entire way, his thumb occasionally stroking my wrist, the same wrist he’d gripped too tightly, as if his touch could now erase the memory of that pain and replace it with a silent, continuou

The silence after the mother’s challenge was absolute and suffocating. Every eye was fixed on Julian, waiting for his move. I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. Then, he moved. In one fluid, decisive motion, Julian took a full step forward, placing his body squarely between his mother and me, shielding me completely from her glacial glare. “She is not my assistant,” he stated, his voice low but carrying perfectly in the hushed room. It wasn’t loud, but it was absolute. “And she is not just my friend.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air before delivering the final blow. “Evelyn is my woman. You will speak to her with respect.”