Marilyn Thornhill Novels & Stories

Everything seemed to stop moving just then. For a moment, it was just Elena and the strange woman in the hall. Mrs. Anderson? Who was this woman? A relative? The woman turned slightly at being addressed, and in that moment said something to the other woman. Then she turned back to Elena. This time her expression was cooler. “So,” she said slowly, “Who the hell are you?” Before she could respond, Aaron stepped between them. “Coz, this is Marilyn Thompson,” he turned to Elena. “Marilyn, this is my cousin, Helen Anderson.”

His wife, Marielle Harrow, sat at the center of the vast living room, surrounded by relatives, political allies, security personnel, and silent staff. Her eyes were swollen, her voice hoarse, but the storm inside her was far from quiet. The moment someone whispered “Elena Thorne” and “prime suspect” in the same breath, something inside her snapped. “She killed my husband,” Marielle said, her voice trembling with anger. “And Roman Thorne, that man, he’s hiding her. Protecting her.” Her sister in law reached out, squeezing her hand gently. “Marielle, nothing has been confirmed yet...”

I like the sound of that, but why does this woman look like she wants to murder me. I forced a smile. “I wasn’t aware I had a title.” She chuckled. “Everything has a title in this world, darling. Including the women who climb into thrones they didn’t build.” “Don’t react,” Thorne whispered through the earring. “She’s baiting you. Smile.” I smiled. It probably looks forced, but it was a smile. “And you are?” I asked sweetly. “Celine Norrington. I own the board Thorne just kicked out. I suppose we’re competitors now.”

My contract husband. Anthony Thorn.

It seemed impossible to peer inside them. “Hello, Chancellor Thorne,” Rick said. “We have Madelyn. North here as you requested.” “A moment, please. I will be out soon.” A tall, long-haired woman emerged from a blinding light. Her magenta skin tone, along with the capital H embedded on her forehead, shocked me. Her lips were succulent and full, and her body posture was flawless. She seemed like a person of authority. “Hello, child,” she said with a smile that amplified her burning magenta eyes. “I am Chancellor Thorne.”

The baby's father was Marcus Hale, which opened a whole separate set of complications the investigator flagged without being asked. And then, at the bottom of his report, almost as an aside: Flynn Thornfield's wife had filed for divorce. Aria Sinclair, twenty eight, associate curator at Torres Contemporary. She'd been seen entering a family law office on Morrison Street four Tuesday mornings in a row. I looked at her name for a long time.

She followed behind him and as they caught up with the attendant who was standing beside a set of new entries, Liam inquired about the women's section. “— I'm sorry Mr Thorne, but you'd have to book an appointment for that. There’s an appointment for the women's private section in a few minutes.” “That's a shame……. Well, I'm here already, and I'd like to have an appointment. — Charge me double or extra.” “.....Mr. Thorne…. It's…..” she tried to explain. “—For the inconvenience, you can add a compensation amount to the tab. Lead the way there, please….. Shall we?” He said, and the attendant, upon hearing his offer, adjusted herself quickly.