Mrs Thornhill Novels & Stories

Thorne could only stare at her wordlessly. "And by the way, how's she faring given that the news is everywhere? It'd be hard for her to even show her face." She mocked with a smile as she turned around, backing him while making hand demonstrations. " 'Headline news: Business mogul Thorne Mikaelson has been discovered to have an affair with his son's fiancée.' Oh, the shame." She chuckled evilly as she continued to hurl insults at him and ridicule him.

A crystal chandelier cast a warm glow over the foyer, and the air hung heavy with the scent of lilies and something else – wealth, perhaps? A woman materialized from a side hallway, her smile as polished as the marble floor. She was dressed in a crisp uniform that somehow managed to look both elegant and practical. "Welcome to Thorne Manor, Mrs. Thorne," she greeted, "I'm Clara, one of the household staff. I'll be showing you to your room." Following Clara up the staircase, my heart hammered against my ribs. Every step, every rustle of fabric seemed to amplify my nervousness. We reached a landing, and Clara gestured towards a doorway at the end of the hallway.

She itched her neck and cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in the texture of her napkin. “Joshua,” Ada hissed frustratingly, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. She leaned in, the scent of her perfume becoming choking. “We have a room full of people watching us. Act like you aren't being held here against your will.” “Aren't I?” Josh whispered back, a ghost of a cynical smile touching his lips. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “We were discussing the cake,” Mrs. Coker interjected, desperate to bridge the chasm. “Seven tiers? With the family crests embossed in edible gold?”

Roman Thorne is the invincible team leader of college hockey. He is large, aggressive and a nightmare to the media. The press, however, does not know what makes the Briarwood Ice Devils so feared. They are not just players. They are ruthless, blood-swilling offspring of the most formidable crime business in the city. Trying to keep a small scandal which is about to blow up their small business, the Thorne family appeals to the service of Sloane Mercer. She is 24 years old and a brilliant ruthless PR fixer. Her task is easy: to improve the image of the team, to work with press, and not to put Roman in the prison. But Sloane has not come to save them. She is here to ruin them. Sloa

Saturday afternoon, Elena’s doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Marcus was at the office—allegedly. Elena had been painting in the guest room, still in her old jeans and paint-splattered shirt. She almost didn’t answer. But curiosity won out. The woman on her doorstep was beautiful. Tall, blonde, wearing designer clothes that probably cost more than Elena’s car. Her emerald eyes were cold and calculating. Elena knew who she was before she introduced herself. “Mrs. Thorne,” Isabelle Laurent said, her voice like honey laced with poison. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I was in the neighborhood and thought we should meet. Woman to woman.”

Mitchelle "Excuse me?" I repeated, louder this time. "I didn't hear you well." The woman smiled, with a cold expression that didn't reach her eyes. "What do you mean you didn't hear well?" she responded sharply. "I said, I am Mrs. Ivy Rothschild. Dorian's wife. Do you see this ring?" She held up her left hand, displaying a wedding band that glinted in the afternoon sunlight. "I'm trying to get into my house and this security is telling me I can't enter," Ivy continued. "I heard that my husband was shot at some event, and I came back immediately. We've been away for a while, but we decided to come home when I heard the news."

Dominic’s hand tightened around mine and his pulse was a frantic and steady thrum against my palm as he surveyed the intrusion. The foyer was filled with the scent of lilies and expensive floor wax which was a sharp departure from the salty air and lemon groves we had left behind. I stepped into the house and felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the twins and everything to do with the woman sitting in the drawing room. Eleanor Thorne was perched on a velvet armchair that had been moved from its original place near the window to a position of central authority in the middle of the room.

I opened it slightly and saw two maids standing in the corner. “I heard someone from Pelligrini came again today,” one of the maids said. “What did he want?” the other one asked. “The maggiordomo told him he has no answer for him yet.” “What kind of an answer?” “I heard that Don Pelligrini offered Mr. Thorne an alliance.” The other one snickered. “Then it looks like there might be a change of Mrs. Thorne soon.” “Shut up, idiot!” The first one grabbed the other one's arm, guiding her to the stairs. “You shouldn't say such things so loud.” A moment later, they were gone.

"Well Anna ended up with child, I hazed her to find out if the child was mine and to my surprise, she was truthful. Let's be honest. Why would your eyes wander to another, when I'm your husband. She had my son but died in childbirth. Despite your objections to having my child. I am a good father. I raised Michael on my own, well he had a governess. Did I mention my wife was a countess?" A snarl escapes my lip "I became Count Thorne. Isn't that hilarious. I stayed with Michael throughout his life. He lived to have a family of his own and the same thing happened to his wife. She died in childbirth. I didn't get to see the next generation, thanks to you" I am stunned in place by his revelation.

"No matter what my mother says, no matter what she brings into this house... you are the only Mistress Thorne here." Liora looked at the grand building with sharp eyes. "I don't need your mother's permission to be myself, Mavric. But I will not let her ruin the peace of this home." As soon as the three-meter solid oak door opened, the scent of expensive and overpowering rose perfume assaulted their senses. In the center of the grand hall sat an elderly woman with intimidating elegance. Lady Eleanor Thorne the Elder was sipping tea from a Ming Dynasty porcelain cup, as if she had never been exiled just days ago.