Mrs Thornhill Wednesday Novels & Stories

"I'm accustomed to addressing Master as 'sir' or 'my husband' around others. I'm sure I'll do fine." We went to the house and I told everyone that Mrs. Thornhill was joining us for the day. She wanted to see the progress we'd made and see how the men worked and if they kept busy or wasted her husband's money. She smiled politely at them as I went through the introductions.

Thorn arrived the following day at Eight o’clock, just as they planned. He was pleased that Nikki was already waiting for him when he pulled into the parking garage. “Good morning, Professor.” Nikki smiled as she climbed into his Jaguar. “Good morning, Miss Crowman.” Thorn nodded as he started to pull out of the garage. “Did you have a good evening?” He asked. “It was fine. Just started working on some of my class assignments early.” Nikki sighed. “Such a diligent student.” Thorn praised with a slight smirk.

A Hundred Days of Darkness A hundred days had passed since Liora Thorne vanished into the foggy night of London, leaving nothing but a letter and a golden ring on her husband’s oak desk. To the outside world, these hundred days were a time of brutal financial triumph for the Thorne Group. But for those inside the vicious circle of Mavric Thorne, these hundred days were a frozen hell. On the top floor of the Thorne Enterprise building, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Patterson appeared in the doorway. "Oh, good, I was hoping to catch you." She moved to the coffee maker, preparing her own cup with the efficiency of long practice. "I wanted to give you a heads up—Mr. Thorne won't be back this afternoon." I frowned. "He said he'd be back by four." "He always says that when he's having lunch with Celine." Mrs. Patterson's smile was knowing, almost conspiratorial. "But those lunches tend to run long. Very long. I'd be surprised if he makes it back before close of business."

Everything in the room spoke of care and love—memories embedded in every object—but the gentle decay whispered that it had been years since anyone had dared to touch a thing. I stepped further inside, my eyes tracing the patterns of the rug underfoot, its fibers fraying just enough to hint at age, and my fingers twitched at the thought of restoring it without erasing its story. A lady appeared from down the hallway, her hand clamped behind her back immediately she saw us. "Mr Thorne, you're welcome." She greeted him before greeting us as well. "Where's Mrs Thorne?" Rapheal asked. "She's in the backyard, I'll get her immediately."

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?

She was already thinking of going back, because this was not what she expected. “Mr. Thorne, what is this?” she asked, her tone sharp, eyes cold. “Is this a business meeting or something else entirely?” Mr Thorne chuckled softly, unbothered. “Excuse my shamelessness,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly across the rim of his glass, “but I could not resist. The temptation of being in a date with the infamous Vanessa smith was too much?”

It bled through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Thorne Tower penthouse, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the sharp, unforgiving edges of the obsidian furniture. Silas Thorne woke up at exactly 6:00 AM, as his internal clock—and the synchronized haptic pulses of the room—demanded. But for the first time in three years, the "Master" persona did not engage with its usual clockwork precision. Instead, he felt a hollow ache in his chest and a fog in his mind that felt like static on an old television screen. He was lying on the oversized leather sofa in his living area, still wearing his dress shirt from the night before. It was wrinkled—an unthinkable lapse in the Protocol.

‎Instead, I started noticing things. ‎A silver hairpin missing from my dresser. My favorite scarf gone from the closet. Small things I’d mentioned in passing to Mrs. Thorne. Then, one morning, I found a photo of Anna tucked under my pillow. The same photo from the mantel. Someone had drawn a red X over her face. ‎I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I found Mrs. Thorne in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. The room smelled of earth and herbs, a false comfort. ‎“Mrs. Thorne,” I said, voice low. “We need to talk.”

"It is a very important dinner. Important people will be here. Master Thorne expects you to be ready." "I don't care what he expects." She just stared at me. Then she turned and walked out. The door locked behind her with a click. Great. Just great. The rest of the day dragged. I had nothing to do. No phone.Just me and those creepy books and my thoughts. I tried the door a hundred times. Locked. I tried the windows again. Still sealed. By seven o'clock I was going crazy from boredom. The lock clicked and a young maid walked in. She looked young maybe twenty.