The Thorne family heir is a psycho. Anyone who crosses the person he protects is met with savage, absolute reprisal. Unfortunately, the person he protects is my stepsister, Chloe—the person I hate most in this world. The day after Chloe deliberately smashed my mother’s urn, and I broke her wrist in response, I was dragged into a dark warehouse by the Thorne heir's men. They shattered my hands and feet and severed the tendons in my wrists. Using my last ounce of strength, I begged my most trusted bodyguard for help. The kidnappers just watched, then one of them spoke to him. "Mr. Thorne," he said, "she's broken." In that moment, I knew. I gave up. And as I welcomed death, Julian Thorne finally broke. 1 I found Julian Thorne on the street. It was pouring rain, and a group of men had him cornered in an alley. I leaned against my car window, idly watching the man struggle to survive the storm. He was beautiful. The way he fought was an art form, his rain-soaked shirt clinging to the lean muscle of his back. Every punch, every kick, was mesmerizing. I could see the raindrops atomize on his skin. Even when they broke his nose, the blood only served to paint his beauty with a sharp, tragic edge. He was a perfect, violent masterpiece. But he was outnumbered. They finally beat him to the ground. After he’d taken a kick that I was sure broke his ribs, I finally pushed my door open and dialed 911. The thugs scattered. I walked over and held out my hand. "I save your life," I said, "and you protect me for three years. Deal?" The rain hammered his face, carving lines through the blood. He looked up, his dark eyes as deep and cold as a quarry, and said nothing. I took his silence as a yes. I’m not a good person. It was a whim, a moment of aesthetic appreciation. No one in this world loved me; I just wanted to choose a single person for my "family." He was beautiful, he was broken, and he was alone. A perfect stray. I chased him for three years. For three years, he remained just as cold. He was a feral cat that refused to be tamed, treating every attempt at affection with aloof disinterest. It was, honestly, compelling. He didn't love me. But when I was in danger, he was always the first one there. That was enough. Until the gala. Until he saw my stepsister, Chloe. Until he fell in love with her at first sight. And until my life ended. The day after Chloe “tripped” during an argument with me, I was pushed down a flight of stairs, ending up with a severe concussion. The day after my best friend, fed up with Chloe’s venomous, two-faced act, "accidentally" spilled a drink on her, I was held down and had three bottles of vodka poured down my throat, perforating my stomach. In just a few months, I was a wreck, the target of a relentless, invisible campaign of terror. The perpetrator was the psycho heir to the Thorne fortune. No one knew how Chloe had met him, but all of New York knew he worshipped her. Touch a hair on her head, and you'd lose a limb. Slowly, my friends vanished. My best friend stopped calling, her last words a warning: "Stop fighting Chloe, Elara. That psycho Thorne will literally kill you." So what? When Chloe "accidentally" knocked my mother's urn off the mantle, watching it shatter, I didn't hesitate. I beat her, right there in the living room, until I heard the snap of her wrist. The next day, I was abducted. Warehouse. Tendons severed. Hands and feet shattered. "Mr. Thorne, it’s done, just as you ordered." The kidnapper’s phone was on speaker. I heard the voice. "Warn her. Next time she dares to touch Chloe, I'll kill her." Cold. Detached. The same ruthless cruelty I'd always found so compelling. I couldn’t believe it. How could it be him? How could it be him? The kidnapper repeated the warning, then threw a phone onto the floor beside me. "You can call your savior now," he sneered. "Remember the lesson." To make the act more degrading, they had smeared the phone's screen with a viscous, milky fluid. The stench was vile. I didn't move. I just lay on the concrete, staring at their triumphant faces. After ten minutes, they got bored and left. As the heavy door slid shut, I heard one last snippet of their call. "Mr. Thorne, the phone is with her. She trusts you more than anyone. I'm sure she'll call you first... just like always..." The last spark of hope in me died. Julian Thorne. My bodyguard. He really was the psycho heir. 2 I stared at the phone. I remembered when Chloe got "stuck" in our home elevator. She'd called me for help. I ignored her and went for a walk. That night, men grabbed me. I was locked in a dark room. Three days. No food, no water. The hunger, the cold, the suffocating blackness. Julian had a tracker on my phone. He was the only one who could find me. I called him, sobbing, begging for help. His voice was flat. "Just apologize to Chloe, Elara, and I'll come get you." I refused. I called the police. But somehow—somehow—they couldn't find me. When the cops showed up at my father's house, my father, my brother, and Julian all told them the same story: I was unstable, prone to drama. It was a false alarm. I was blacklisted for filing a false report. That time, I lasted three days. I broke. I cried. I apologized to Chloe. It was the first time I had ever bent to her or her mother. She'd smiled, standing over me. "I'm so glad you finally see the error of your ways, sister." My father and brother were "relieved." I was "finally behaving," "learning my place." When I got out, I was diagnosed with severe claustrophobia. I'm terrified of the dark. I'm terrified of small spaces. But lying here, in this dark, silent warehouse, I felt nothing. You can only feel fear when you still have the will to live. I didn't touch the phone. I lay there for three days. I thought about my mom. I thought about how, when she was sick and dying from chemo, my dad stopped coming home. I thought about the photos that woman—Chloe's mother—sent to my mom’s hospital bed. Photos of her and my father, in our home. I thought about how she and Chloe came to our house for my mother’s "last birthday." My mother, weak from treatment, had a heart attack. She never recovered. My brother, Marcus, held me as I cried. He promised me. "It's okay, Elara. I'm here. I'll never let those monsters hurt you." Mom was gone for less than a month before Dad moved them in. At first, Marcus was my ally. When did he change? Was it when Chloe offered him her only piece of candy, her hand trembling? Was it when she’d get "bullied" at school, only to cry in the hallway where she knew he'd find her? Like her mother, she was an expert at playing the victim. And I... I was always the villain. The day he first defended her against me, I demanded to know how he could forget what they did to our mother. He snapped. "Mom had cancer, Elara. She was going to die anyway." The same words my father had used a hundred times. In that moment, I had no family left. And now, the person I had chosen as family, the one I'd rescued... was using that same blade to kill me, all for the same two women. I looked at my broken hands. I looked at the filthy phone. I laughed. This life... it was nothing but betrayal. It was pointless. I didn't touch the phone. I just lay there. And I waited. 3 I thought I would die. But on the third day, the warehouse door was kicked open. "Why? Why didn't you call me? " Julian stumbled in, a man possessed. In the dim light, he saw me. The blood-caked mat, the mangled wrists, the leg bent at an unnatural angle. All sound died. "Elara. Don't you die. I forbid you to die! " His hands were shaking as he lifted me. He was acting like he actually cared. I smiled, my lips cracking. "Elara! Elara, please, stay with me!" Something wet hit my face. Are those... crocodile tears? Pathetic. I was rushed to the hospital. I survived. When I opened my eyes, he was there, red-rimmed and hollowed out from lack of sleep. "Why didn't you call? Why didn't you ask me for help? Why?" He stared at me, desperate for an answer he couldn't comprehend. He didn't understand why the person who had once trusted him implicitly would rather die than dial his number. "Why didn't you call me?!" He was unraveling, his voice a raw, broken whisper. I found it hilarious. You wanted me dead. Who is this performance for? I glanced at the phone he was clutching. He immediately held it out to me. And as the phone, still crusted with filth, touched his own skin, he finally realized. The dry, foul-smelling stain melted against the sweat of his palm. As a man, he knew exactly what it was. He froze, his entire body going rigid. "They broke... my hands," I whispered, my throat like sandpaper. "They wanted me... to use... my tongue." Julian staggered back, as if I'd hit him. He was shaking his head, his face a mask of disbelief and pure, animal horror. I smiled. Julian Thorne. You're the one who ordered it. How long are you going to keep up the act? I closed my eyes. 4 The doctor came in. "The bones will heal. The tendons... that's the real problem. The damage is severe. If she'd been brought in immediately, we could have guaranteed eighty percent recovery. But now..." He shook his head. The attending physician, a woman, looked at me with pity. "The VIP patient on the floor above... Ms. Chloe... she's here for a minor wrist fracture. The Thorne family flew in a specialist team from Johns Hopkins. Our chief of surgery went to ask them... but they said... they said they would only operate if you knelt at Ms. Chloe's bedside and begged." She looked down, ashamed. "I was told to relay that message. It came from her brother." My brother. I smiled. "It's fine. I can just die." The doctor blanched. She knew. When a patient says that calmly, they mean it. Julian exploded. "Elara, stop being so dramatic! You hurt her first! It's just an apology! Is your stubborn pride worth more than your life?" I turned my head and stared at him. "Apologize... to the woman who helped kill my mother? "I'd. Rather. Die." The veins in Julian's neck bulged. I'd never seen him this out of control. He wanted me to kneel to Chloe that badly? I would never give them the satisfaction.
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