Thorne Simpson. My husband. The man I’ve been married to for five years. The man who controls this city. The man who swore he would protect me.
That day, as I pounded the bell like a lunatic with no one answering, Thorne strolled in. Perfectly tailored suit, gleaming shoes, calm as a stormless sea. He handed me my phone like it was a gift and said, “The case has been dropped. Make a video. Apologize. Publicly. Do it, and your father gets surgery. He survives… or dies. Your choice.”
My hands trembled uncontrollably. My body shook. Tears streamed down, and I whispered, “W-why…? Why him? Why would you protect Lilith over your own father?”
For the second time in my life, I cried in front of Thorne. The first was at our wedding—tears of happiness. Now, tears of betrayal.
“Stop crying, Aria…” His voice was soft, almost human, and for a fraction of a second, it seemed like he cared. He lifted a hand, as if to wipe my tears, then hesitated. He recoiled, as though my suffering disgusted him.