Mrs Thornhill Novels & Stories

“Was a ton of stuff stolen? Did you see who did it? Are you scared to be here now?” Megan opened her mouth to say that if she’d seen who’d done this Caleb wouldn’t have to stand watch, but Jubilee replied first. “We didn’t see who it was, no. It happened during the night.” The girl pouted. “That’s boring.” Her eyes widened as she looked out the window, which had since been repaired at no cost by one of Harrison’s many friends. “But how lucky you are to have Officer Thornton close by! He’s so yummy. I love a man in uniform.”

Seeing me enter the room, my father stood to escort me to the sofa where an elderly lady smelling of Lilacs and ginger, poured the tea and offered me an assortment of baked confections. She was introduced to me as Mrs. Stuart; the head of the serving staff as well as one of the finest cooks this side of Inverness. I dipped my head and thanked her for the tea, then arranged to talk with her in the morning about the pantry and store room inventory to prepare for winter. My father chuckled, “why don’t you relax Rose, we can worry about all that in due time”. “Well, it’s all your fault in raising a daughter that feels preparedness is a necessity of life!”, I laughed back.

Except for one thing—it was too quiet. The gardener was the only sign of life. He stood near the fountain, trimming rose bushes. When he spotted us, he straightened, his face twitching in surprise. “Mr. Steele,” he called as we stepped out. “Wasn’t expecting you.” “I gathered,” I said. Inside, the house smelled faintly of fresh flowers, the way Veronica liked it. Everything gleamed—polished wood, spotless marble. But there was no staff moving around, no sound of dishes or vacuum cleaners. Just… quiet.

Damien's mother said, as she pulled Damien outside the door, leaving me and the five maids alone. I remained my chin high, and said in a gentle tone, "Why don't we introduce ourselves first? Greetings ladies, my name is Charlotte Hayes." "That last name won't last though," the 2nd maid said, a cheesy joke coming out from her mouth. Three of them started laughing, like a giggle.

Marcus limped to his feet. He pointed at the wreckage covering the floor. "There's your evidence of corporate espionage right there. Vivienne, I'll give you one more chance. Apologize to Amber right now and promise you'll never show your face here again, and I'll let this slide. Besides..." "Amber has never wanted to be Mrs. Thorne. So as long as you go home and play the good little housewife, the title is yours to keep." My pupils contracted. "Marcus. Are you sure about that?"

"Are you alright, dear?" ​"I do not know." ​"Come. I will make some tea." ​They sat at the kitchen island. Mrs. Chen steeped chamomile and slid the mug across the marble counter. ​"Mr. Thorne cares about your wellbeing," Mrs. Chen noted. "More than he projects. More than he likely realizes himself." ​"He cares about his investment."

In fact, they never got along. "I have a bad feeling about this," I muttered, knitting in between my brows. Damien placed a calming hand on the small of my back. "Whatever she's up to, we'll find out. Just stay sharp." The office was dim, oak-paneled, and heavy with the scent of old books and older secrets. Mr. Thornhill, Grandma's long-time attorney, sat behind his desk with a guarded expression. He was the kind of man who never blinked unless he absolutely had to.

A merger disguised as matrimony. Inside the Sinclair estate, Mrs. Sinclair clutched her pearls as her phone buzzed endlessly, friends and rivals alike demanding answers. Mr. Sinclair stormed through the halls, shouting into calls, trying to keep control of the narrative before it spiraled out of their hands. And inside the Thorne mansion, the staff whispered. They had seen. They had bowed and called her “Mrs. Thorne,” but now the title was no longer confined to the mansion’s walls. The world knew.

Martha The silence stretches for an eternity. I see the thoughts swirling in my daughter's eyes, I see the mute recognition, the shock, the terrible attraction that sparks between them like flint on dry powder. I have to intervene. Now. —Élianor, darling, I say, forcing a normalcy that rings false. This is Mr. Thorne. Marcus Thorne. He… he's going to rent the cottage for a while. I brandish the money slightly, like proof, a pathetic justification.

I was always wearing hoodies that covered me properly. “Shut it! Miguel, I'm asking you a question? What was the last thing I said?” Mrs. Shirley yelled, making me jump in fright – shocked at her outburst. One minute ago, she was shocked and the next minute she was like a fuming rabbit. It made me wonder if she was pregnant as she was on a rollercoaster of emotions. “I wasn't listening. I'm sorry ma,” I apologized with my head down, making other students stifle their laughs.