The morning light cut through the curtains like a blade. Elena blinked against it, her body heavy from another night of restless sleep, the dream already dissolving at the edges—just a feeling left behind. A heat that had nowhere to go.
She sat up. The clock on the nightstand read 7:03.
Her muscles ached as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The blouse she'd worn the day before hung over the chair, wrinkled but clean enough. She grabbed it, stepped into the skirt, and caught herself in the mirror.
Dark circles. Hair a mess. She looked like someone who'd been running for days.
She splashed water on her face in the bathroom, ran her fingers through her hair until it wasn't a disaster, and tucked the blouse into the skirt. Functional. Professional. The uniform of someone who still had some say.
She opened her door and stepped into the hallway—and nearly walked into Presley.
"Miss Rossi."
His voice was calm, but there was something in the set of his shoulders. A readiness she hadn't seen before.
"Good morning," she said, stepping back. "I was just heading to the study."
"Mr. Thorn is waiting for you out front."
She blinked. "Out front?"
"Yes, miss. He asked me to collect you."
The study had been their routine. Every morning, the same desk, the same chair, the same stack of contracts and reports. A rhythm she'd started to learn. This—whatever this was—broke it.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"Not that I'm aware of, miss." Presley's face gave nothing away. "He's expecting you."
She swallowed. Nodded. "Okay."
He turned and led the way down the hall, his footsteps steady against the hardwood. Elena followed, her heart picking up a rhythm she didn't invite. The front door loomed ahead, flanked by tall windows that let in the pale morning light.
Presley pulled the door open.
"After you, miss."
She stepped through, the cool air hitting her face, and saw him.
Liam Thorn stood at the edge of the circular driveway, his back to her, hands in the pockets of a charcoal suit. The black sedan was pulling up slowly, tires crunching gravel, a driver she didn't recognize behind the wheel. One of Victor's men, probably—young, buzz cut, eyes fixed forward.
Thorn turned as the car came to a stop.
"Right on time."
His voice carried. No warmth, no edge. Just a fact.
Elena walked down the steps, her flats against the stone. "Where are we going?"
"Into town."
He reached for the rear door and pulled it open. Held it. Waited.
She hesitated. A heartbeat. Two.
Then she walked past him and slid into the back seat. The leather was cool against her thighs. She watched him close the door, the sound solid and final, and then he walked around the other side. The driver's neck was stiff, his hands at ten and two, eyes on the rearview mirror.
Thorn got in beside her. The door clicked shut.
The car pulled forward, the manor shrinking in the side mirror, and Elena stared out the window at the trees blurring past. The silence stretched. She could feel him beside her—the weight of him, the stillness. His leg was inches from hers. She kept her hands in her lap.
"So," she said, keeping her voice steady. "What's in town?"
Thorn turned his head, just slightly. His blue eyes caught the light.
"Your new clothing."
Her throat tightened. "My what?"
"You need more than what's in your closet. We're fixing that today."
She looked at him. His face was calm, unreadable. The same poker face from every meeting.
"I have clothes," she said.
"You have what Mrs. Crane bought you. That's a starting point, not a wardrobe."
Her jaw tightened. "And you need to be there for this?"
"Yes."
She turned back to the window. The city was starting to show itself—strip malls, gas stations, the low sprawl of Las Lona waking up. Her reflection was faint against the glass, ghost-like.
Part of her knew he was right. She'd been wearing the same three outfits for days, rotating through them like a uniform. More clothes meant not feeling trapped in the same fabric every morning. But the other part—the part that had been shrinking since she signed that contract—remembered what Mrs. Crane had brought. The black dress. The lingerie.
She remembered what he'd said at dinner. "I have taste."
She felt heat creep up her neck.
"I don't need you to pick out my clothes," she said, her voice quieter than she meant.
Thorn didn't answer. Not immediately. The car hit a bump and the leather creaked.
"You signed a contract, Elena. That means you work for me. When you're in my home, when you're at events, when you're representing Thorn Holdings—you are an extension of me. What you wear matters."
She bit the inside of her cheek. "You could have just given me a budget."
"I could have."
She waited for more. There was none.
The street widened, the buildings thickening into a downtown strip. Brownstones, cafes, a bookstore with a faded awning. The driver took a left and pulled up in front of a boutique she didn't recognize—tall windows, a brass handle, mannequins in silk.
Thorn got out first. Elena took a breath, then followed.
The air smelled like fresh bread and car exhaust. She stood on the sidewalk, her hands at her sides, as Thorn walked around the car and stopped beside her.
"After you, Miss Rossi."