Marilyn Thornhill Wednesday Novels & Stories

“Liam no. Don’t drag her into this “ But the call was already ringing. After three seconds, Caroline picked up. “Liam? Oh my god! are you crazy? Do you know what time it is!” “Caroline,” I cut in. “Where will Marilyn be tomorrow?” “What?” she asked, confused. “Why?” “Answer me.” There was a pause. “…At the grocery store. Around noon. Why?” “Good.” I ended the call. Helena stood up fast. “Liam!” Rowan stared at me like I’d grown two heads. “You’re really doing this.”

That was the leverage Julian needed to destroy Vance's reputation and secure the Sinclair deal. My intense focus was finally broken by a polite, firm knock on the door. It was Higgins, the butler. “Mrs. Thorne, Mr. Thorne has instructed me to remind you that your attendance at the private charity auction is required in one hour. He is waiting in the lounge.” I glanced at the clock. I had been submerged in Julian’s code for seven solid hours. I hadn't moved, eaten, or even thought about the contract. I ran a quick final script—a 'watchdog' program to monitor any activity from the Blackstream firm—and closed the laptop. The Hacker was replaced by the Wife.

One of Rosie’s guards strode in, chest heaving, his cloak stained with dust and blood. “Alpha,” he said, bowing to her, ignoring me entirely. “A rider has arrived from Thorns. A messenger. Urgent seal.” Rosie stood at once. “Where?” “In the courtyard, my lady.” She turned to me. “You’ll forgive me, Alpha Emily. But if you don’t mind—” “Of course,” I said, rising with her. “I’ll accompany you.” Together, we crossed the courtyard, the night air thick with frost and suspicion. A rider knelt beside the fountain, clutching a scroll sealed in black wax—Rosie’s seal.

It was a live news feed from Wall Street Journal. BREAKING: THORNES IN TURMOIL. LEAKED DOCUMENTS REVEAL BILLIONAIRE DAMIAN THORNE’S MARRIAGE TO AARA VANCE IS A FRAUD. EMERGENCY BOARD MEETING CALLED FOR MONDAY. The secret was out. And the war for the Thorne empire had just officially begun.

I told him, sitting in an armchair in front of him. Rowan put down his empty cup on the table. “You may not have other options.” “I'll make her come to me,” I said simply. His brows climbed up his forehead. “Seriously? That's your plan?” A wicked grin stretched across my face as I pulled out my phone, called my secretary, and put her on the speaker. “Livia? The other day, you said something about the wedding in Duncan's mansion.” “Yes, Mr. Thorne,” her raspy voice sounded. “You received an invitation to Ms. Portia Duncan and Mr. Calvin Rollins's wedding. The ceremony will be held this Saturday.”

The transformation began at 6:00 AM sharp, heralded by a subtle knock at the West Wing double doors. Grace had barely slept, her mind trapped in a perpetual loop of spreadsheets, forensic data points, and the echoing warning Elias had left behind in the subterranean vault. When she opened the door, she was met by a small army of professionals—stylists, tailors, and makeup artists—all bearing the sleek, black insignia of the Thorne Group’s public relations division.

Everywhere she slithered away to, there were hushed whispers of the coming elections, celebrity scandals, business meetings, and political propagandas. She couldn't help but wonder if her wedding had turned to a meeting point of some sort, and she leaned back on a pillar to withdraw the inhaler from her pocket. She was on the second puff when Mrs. Thorn suddenly appeared beside her. "Is that what I think it is?" Gina's first thought was how easily the woman was able to come by undetected and catch her in the act. The accusatory tone made her nearly want to hide it, but on second thought, wasn't the woman responsible for her misfortune?

It was a safe enough question, something that wouldn't cause her to be wary of me. Nora smiled slightly, as though amused by the question. “No, ma’am. It’s Saturday. Mr. Thorne is in the gym.” Saturday. I hadn’t realized what day it was. Time had lost meaning over the past few days, blurred by the uncertainty, the grief, and the endless waiting for news about Ashton. “Right,” I said, trying to hide my confusion. “Thank you.” Nora nodded but didn’t leave right away. “Will you be needing anything else this morning?”

The anchor’s voice continued, calm and clinical, but the room seemed to tilt. “—details are limited, but reports suggest the Thorne matriarch is currently in critical but stable condition—” “Oh my God,” Mia said, looking up at the screen. “Margaret Thorne?” I forced myself to turn, to look appropriately surprised. My heartbeat roared in my ears. “What?” I asked, a beat too late. Then, softer, “Are you serious?” Mia nodded, eyes still on the TV. “Yeah. Apparently it happened really early this morning. That’s awful.”

Oryn said. Cyprian turned. He walked to the desk and flipped the folder open. Inside was a clipping from a tabloid. The Daily Star. THORNE HEIR DUMPS "GHOST" WIFE FOR TRUE LOVE. Below the headline was a grainy paparazzi photo. It showed a woman leaving the Thorne estate in the rain. She was soaking wet. She was dragging a suitcase. Her head was down. "Vespera Thorne," Cyprian read the name. "The invisible wife. The one everyone says is a doormat."