Marilyn Thornhill Novels & Stories

All of it… over. It felt like a miracle. A real one. "Who… who are they?" I finally asked. "The Thorne Foundation? Why would they do this?" "I don't know!" Mrs. Byrne said, throwing her hands up. "The woman on the phone just said they 'like to help the community' and that 'someone told them about Havencrest. Maybe someone we helped? A long time ago? Someone who did well?" She hugged me tight. "It doesn't matter why, my dear. It just matters that it's here. God heard us."

The image of Elora on the massive digital billboard was a vision of clinical, high-resolution perfection. She didn't look like the "Thistle-Scented" girl who had found her voice in the North. She looked like a "Product"—her skin airbrushed to a porcelain sheen, her eyes a solid, glowing mercury-silver that held no memory of Kaelen. The caption beneath her read: ELORA THORNE: THE FUTURE OF BIOLOGICAL STABILITY.

Silas hissed, though his left eye began to flicker—the telltale sign of a system glitch. "Don't you? Let's look at the foundation." Caspian held up the page. "The Ledger says the Thorne heir died in 1996. A fever. A quiet burial. And then, suddenly, a 'recovered' grandson appears three years later. A boy with no childhood photos. A boy who speaks five languages but can't remember the name of his primary school teacher."

The anchor continued speaking. “Six years ago Seraphina Thorne vanished under controversial circumstances. Now questions are rising regarding whether Madam S and the missing Thorne heiress are the same woman.” Clara slammed the remote onto the table. The screen went black. Silence filled the room. Her assistant stood a few steps away holding a tablet. “Miss Clara…” “Don’t.” The assistant lowered her head. Clara opened her social media page. Her newest post from last night showed her smiling beside flower samples for the upcoming wedding.

He concurred. "I won't pardon that person Oscar. Do you remember someone operated your computer before?" "I have four people who always used my computer." "Who are they?" Hillary demanded. "Aaron Andrews, Aika Morris, Michelle Adamson, and Elmer." "Michelle Adamson? That was her last name?" "Yes." Oscar responded. Hillary was senile how is Michelle related to Marina. She recalled Marina didn't voiced out about her family. If she is by any chance related to Marina so beyond any doubt she will treat Michelle like her own family. Marina is her friend.

The moment I sat on the soft surface, the cameraman gave me a hand gesture as a signal that the show… finally commences. It was at that moment. A clicking sound on the floor, footsteps coming towards the stage. The figure of a person slowly revealing from the darkness. And as light finally shun upon its face, a figure of a woman appears—revealing the former no. 1 model that caught the attention of the entire world, Ophelia Maine, my mother.

Maybe my father wasn’t entirely wrong about the benefits of this alliance. My parents come over to check in on us, with Marilyn Borran alongside them. Marilyn is almost seventy years old, black, with close-cropped gray hair, a plain suit, and sensible shoes. She’s got a calm and intelligent face. If you were stupid, you might think she’s a friendly grandmother type. In actuality, she’s one of the most powerful people in New York.

Every time a man tried to pull him away for a business chat he simply tightened his grip on my hand and told them that his schedule was permanently booked. Eleanor Thorne appeared from the shadows of a marble pillar looking like a queen who had just discovered a revolution was happening in her own backyard. She wore a dress that cost more than a small apartment and a smile that was as sharp and cold as a shard of industrial ice. "I see you have decided to turn a private matter into a public spectacle without consulting the family PR firm first," she said with a voice like a velvet whip.