A black car was there at exactly nine AM. Elena watched it pull up, from the window of her apartment, a sleek black SUV with tinted windows, and for a moment she just stood there, her bag strap cutting into her shoulder, the contract folded in the side pocket.

She hadn't slept for even a minute. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her signature on that page. Saw Marco's face. Saw Thorn's assessing stare.

She'd showered and dressed in the most professional outfit she owned—a cream blouse, dark slacks, sensible flats. She'd left the jewelry behind and kept her makeup simple, just enough mascara to keep herself from looking as exhausted as she felt.

She looked like she was going to a job interview.

Except this wasn't a job interview.

The car door opened as she stepped out of her building. A man climbed out from the driver's side—tall, broad, easily six foot three, with the heavy-shouldered build of someone who spent hours in the gym. His shirt was dark, his face was lined, and his eyes found her before she'd taken two steps.

"Miss Rossi." His voice was gravelly and strong with authority.

"That's me." She stopped at the curb. "You are?"

A flicker at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile. "My name is Victor. Mr. Thorn has informed me that you will be the new resident at the manor." He opened the rear door. "Mr. Thorn is expecting you."

Elena slipped into the back seat. The leather was cool and spotless, carrying a faint scent of cedar and something expensive she couldn't quite identify. Victor closed the door with a soft click that felt strangely final. A moment later, he was behind the wheel, and the engine hummed to life.

They drove in silence through the city streets. They passed the coffee shops and bodegas, the corner where she'd bought a pretzel almost every Friday for the last three years. Familiar places slipped past the tinted glass, each one becoming smaller in the distance. She pressed her hand against the window and watched them disappear. She'd spent years building a life here. Now, with every turn, it felt a little farther away.

Victor didn't try to make conversation. He drove with the focused stillness of someone who'd done this route a thousand times, his eyes moving between the road and the mirrors with quiet precision. Elena didn't know what to say, so she let the silence remain.

Elena watched the city thin out. The buildings spread apart, giving way to trees, wider roads, and properties set so far back from the road that they seemed almost hidden from everything around them.

At least twenty minutes had passed. That must have been how long it took to leave her world behind.

Elena saw the gates appear ahead as Victor slowed the car. Dark wrought iron twisted into sharp points, set between massive stone pillars that rose nearly ten feet above the drive. Small cameras watched from either side, tracking their approach.

Victor coasted to a stop. A guard emerged from a small building hidden from the main road. He wore a black shirt with a discreet emblem. He walked to Victor's window with practiced economy. Didn't stoop to look in the back. Just stood there, waiting. “Welcome back, Sir. Is this Miss Rossi?”

Victor rolled his window down halfway. "Yes. Elena Rossi."

The guard's eyes slid past Victor, found Elena, and stopped. Assessed her, then he nodded, swept the back seat again, and stepped back.

The gate shuddered, then slid open, wrought iron grinding against its track. Elena watched the bars part, revealing the road beyond. Her stomach tightened. She was crossing into Liam Thorn's world now, and she had no idea what waited for her on the other side.

The bars closed behind them with a clank that reverberated through the car, and she refused to let herself look back.

The driveway felt longer than her entire street. Old oaks and maples lined both sides, filtering the morning light into shifting patterns across the asphalt. She caught glimpses of the manor through the branches as they approached—grey stone, dark timber, and steep roofs rising from the trees.

It wasn't modern, but it wasn't cold either. The stone was clean, the windows gleamed in the morning light, and the grounds were perfectly maintained. It looked like something from another century, a grand estate built for generations ago.

It was beautiful.  Which just made her uneasy.

She couldn't even explain why. Nothing looked wrong. If anything, everything looked perfect. But with every turn of the drive, her apartment, her office, her whole ordinary life seemed a little farther behind her.

Elena pressed her palm flat against the leather seat and made herself breathe.

The car came to a stop, and the engine died. As Victor exited, for a moment, there was only the sound of birds and the distant whisper of wind through the leaves. Then Victor opened her door and stepped back to give her room.

She stepped out. Gravel crunched beneath her flats. The air smelled of pine, damp earth, and an unfamiliar floral scent. Up close, the manor was even larger than she'd expected, its two large stories of grey stone and dark timber rising above her.

And on the stone walkway leading to the front door stood a man in a tailcoat.

He was older, maybe early fifties, with peppered grey hair and a short, clean-cut beard that followed the line of his jaw. His posture was immaculate. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked like he'd been standing there for an hour and would stand there for another without complaint.

Elena walked toward him. The gravel gave way to smooth stone steps, and the man inclined his head — not quite a bow, but close.

"Miss Rossi." His voice was calm and measured, every word spoken with quiet precision. "Welcome to Thorn Manor. I am Presley, the caretaker of the Manor. Mr. Thorn is expecting you."

She stopped at the bottom of the steps, suddenly aware of how small she felt beneath the Manor's entrance. The doors behind him were massive, dark wood set with iron hinges, the kind of doors that belonged in a castle.

"Is he inside?" Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

"He is." Presley turned, his hand finding the handle with practiced ease. "Please. Follow me."

The door swung open with that same soft, oiled silence, and Elena stepped into the grand hallway of Thorn Manor. The transition was immediate—the cool, filtered spring air replaced by still, conditioned silence, the scent of pine and damp earth giving way to polished wood, beeswax, and fresh flowers. Inside, the light was different. Muted. Grey morning filtered through tall arched windows set high in the walls, falling across the floor in long, pale rectangles.

Elena stopped. She couldn't help it.

The entrance hall was enormous. Polished marble stretched beneath her feet, every tile fitted so precisely that the floor looked almost seamless. Above her, a chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. Not the gaudy crystal kind she'd expected, but dark wrought iron with slender arms and what looked like candles burning at the ends. The flames flickered across the walls.

To her left, a hallway disappeared deeper into the house, lined with closed doors and dark-framed paintings. Another stretched to her right, almost perfectly matching the first.

Everything had its place.

Elena stood there for a moment, suddenly aware that she didn't know where she was supposed to put herself.

Directly ahead, two large doors stood closed against the back wall. Dark oak, reinforced with iron hinges, their surfaces carved with intricate scenes Elena couldn't quite make out from the distance. Vines or thorns wound around shapes that might have been animals, or men.

She found herself wondering what was behind them.

And then there was the staircase.

The staircase rose from the center of the hall, sweeping upward in dark wood and wrought iron before turning back toward the second floor. The banister was thick and polished to a deep shine, the wood nearly black. Twisted iron balusters ran beneath it, each ending in a sharp point.

The staircase was beautiful. Expensive and a little imposing.

Above, a gallery hallway ran the length of the grand hall, lined with a balustrade that looked down onto the space below. Doorways led off it, dark and waiting.

Elena's gaze traveled up the stairs, following the polish of the wood, the line of the iron, past the landing, up to the top.

He was standing there.

Liam Thorn stood at the top of the staircase, one hand resting loosely on the polished banister, a glass of something dark in the other. Whiskey, she guessed.

He wore a dark blue suit, the jacket unbuttoned and his tie loose at the throat. His black hair was short at the sides and pushed back from his forehead, cleanly styled without looking overdone. A shadow of stubble lined his jaw.

Then his eyes met hers. Blue. Steady. Already watching her.

He wasn't moving. He was just watching her.

She felt the weight of that gaze like a hand on her chest. The house receded around her, the paintings, the chandelier, the symmetry—it all faded, and there was just him, patient and utterly in control.

It's not excessive, she thought, the observation arriving unbidden, a strange, grounding anchor in the middle of the rising tide of her nerves. A real mega-billionaire would have a house three times this size. Gold fixtures. A Picasso in the foyer. This feels more restrained. Controlled. The thought didn't comfort her. Restraint in a man like this wasn't modesty. It was precise. He had exactly what he wanted, no more.

And now this brought forward the question… Why does he want me?

"Miss Rossi." His voice carried easily across the hall. Elena looked up at him, suddenly aware of the distance between them—the height of the staircase, the space separating them, and how effortlessly he seemed to command everything around him.

"Welcome to my home."

Elena swallowed, found her voice, and held it steady. "Mr. Thorn."

A hint of approval crossed his face. He gave a small nod, as though she'd passed some quiet test. Something was unsettling in the certainty of his gaze—as though her presence here had already become an expectation.

"Come upstairs, Elena. We have much to discuss."

Elena heard the command beneath the courtesy.

She could feel Presley waiting behind her, silent and patient. The door had closed. The car was gone. Somewhere beyond the gates, the city was already out of sight.

Elena glanced toward the staircase.

Every instinct told her to stay where she was. Down here, there was space around her. She could breathe. Upstairs meant leaving that space behind and putting herself entirely in Liam's hands.

She forced a step forward. The marble felt hard and cold beneath her flats. Her footsteps echoed through the hall.

She crossed the room, keeping her eyes ahead. The chandelier flickered overhead. Paintings lined the walls, their dark frames passing in her peripheral vision.

At the base of the staircase, she stopped. Her hand settled on the banister. It felt cool and smooth beneath her palm. She tightened her grip and looked up. Then she began to climb.

Each step took her higher and her perspective shifted. The paintings resolved into landscapes, all of them dark, rich, beautiful, the kind of art that belonged in a museum. Her hand trailed along the banister, the polished rail a constant, grounding presence.

At the top, Liam Thorn straightened. He was taller than she'd realized. Up close, he had at least six inches on her, maybe more. His shoulders were broad, his frame carrying a physical strength the suit couldn't quite hide. The blue of his eyes was sharp, almost startling, a pale, clear color that caught her attention for half a second longer than she meant it to.

She reached the top step and looked away as she stopped.

The distance between them was maybe three feet. She could smell him now—cedar, expensive cologne, and something underneath, something sharper.

He didn't speak. He just looked at her. His gaze moved over her, taking in the cream blouse, the dark slacks, the sensible flats. The lack of jewelry. The single coat of mascara. Even the nervous set of her jaw.

Elena shifted beneath his attention, suddenly too aware of what she was wearing and how she must look standing in front of him.

His eyes met hers again.

"Follow me." The way he said it felt like it wasn't a request. He turned and led her into the door just left from the top of the stairway.

The door swung open under his hand, and Elena stepped through it into a room that stopped her breath.

The walls were lined with bookshelves. The wood was also dark, gleaming under the soft glow of lamps placed at careful intervals. A study. But it was the far wall that seized her attention—a massive window, floor to ceiling, that looked out over a large body of water.

She took a few steps toward it without thinking, pulled by the sheer scale of the view. Thorn Manor sat high above the water, built into the edge of a steep drop where the land fell away beneath the house. From the second floor, Elena could see a wide wooden deck below, its railing running along the edge of the cliff. Beyond it, the ground disappeared from view, hiding whatever lay at the bottom with only more water in sight.

The water stretched out below her, broad and silver beneath the overcast sky. Hills rose along the opposite shore, folding around the bay and fading into the distance until one ridge gave way to another. She couldn't see where the water ended, only the layers of dark green hills surrounding it. Whitecaps moved across the surface, driven by a wind she couldn't feel through the glass.

The study was cool and quiet. Everything seemed carefully arranged, from the furniture to the few objects on the desk. The desk itself was massive, made from a single slab of dark wood. Its surface held little—a laptop, a brass lamp, and a single sheet of paper.

Her contract.

She pulled her attention back to the room.

Liam Thorn had already moved and was seated behind the desk. He sat back in his chair, one arm resting along the armrest, the other hand flat on the desk near the copy of the contract. His jacket was unbuttoned with no tie. He looked like a man who owned everything around him, down to the air she was breathing.

He never gestured to the chair across from him. He just watched her take in the view, let her have that moment of wonder, and then let the silence stretch until it became a pressure.

“It’s beautiful, is it not?” His voice cut in through the silence.

"It is." She let the words hang, still not turning to face him fully. "I didn't know places like this existed outside of movies."

"I grew up with this view." There was no nostalgia in his voice, just fact. "Every morning before school, I'd stand at this window and watch the mist burn off the water. My father would be at that desk before I was awake, already working. I still never get tired of it.”

She felt his words settle in the space between them, heavier than they should have been. The lake rippled, a bird skimming the surface, and she imagined a younger version of him standing where she stood. "You’ve always lived here?"

The leather of his chair creaked as he shifted. "This house has been in my family for three generations.”

She finally turned from the window, meeting his blue eyes. The copper light caught the edge of his jaw, the five-o'clock shadow. He was studying her with that same assessment. She felt it then—the weight of his patience, the way he let her have the moment because he knew every second she spent looking at that lake was a second she spent accepting that this was her world now.

The reminder hit her, and she thought. She didn't choose this… This was a world she was being forced into.

She crossed to the chair facing his desk—a leather wingback, dark and deep, built for comfort she didn't intend to feel. She sat down, the leather sighing under her weight, and reached into the side pocket of her bag. The folded contract came out, creased and worn from a night of handling. She set it on the desk, opened to the first page, revealing yellow highlights and scribbled notes in the margins, then looked up at him.

"Before I sign, I want some questions answered."

His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. She couldn’t tell if it was surprise or interest. He tilted his head, the movement slow and considering, and then he leaned forward, resting both forearms on the desk.

"I expected nothing less." His voice was low and unhurried. "You've built a successful business from very little. You're clearly intelligent." Then he gestured to the contract. "Ask."

Elena didn't look down at her notes. She'd memorized the questions during the long, sleepless hours of the night.

"The contract says I'm to be available at any hour for any activity, service, or duty the Principal reasonably determines necessary." She met his eyes. "Define 'activity.'"

“Anything I deem necessary within the scope of the contract,” he said.

“That’s not a definition.”

“It’s not meant to be one,” he replied, gaze steady. “It’s authorization. The details are determined by need at the time they arise.”

Elena's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "So if you ask me to scrub floors at three in the morning, that's an 'activity.' If you ask me to—" She stopped. Swallowed. "If you ask me to get on my knees, that's an activity too."

"If I feel it meets the needs of the task at hand, then yes." He said it flat, without hesitation, his eyes never leaving hers. "It is."

The word hung between them. Elena felt it settle in her chest, cold and heavy. She'd known. Of course, she'd known. But hearing him say it, without apology, without softening, made it real in a way the printed words hadn't.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then the debt clause may activate, and I collect from Marco." He said it the same way he might have said the sky is grey today—a fact, not a threat. "But you knew that, Elena. You read the contract."

She had. Line by line. Clause by clause. She'd highlighted the warning about availability until the yellow ink bled through the page.

"I want boundaries." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Lines you won't cross."

"Name them."

She blinked. She hadn't expected him to engage. She'd expected dismissal, deflection, the kind of corporate maneuvering that turned every question back on the asker. But he was sitting there, watching her, waiting, his expression unreadable.

"I don't—" She stopped. Reached for her thoughts, found them scattered. "I've never done anything like this. I don't know what lines I need yet."

“So be precise,” he added. “Or don’t ask at all.” He then leaned back in his chair again, the leather creaking under his weight. “I’m not going to hurt you, Elena. I have no intention of doing that. Ever.”

The qualification hit her like cold water. It should have reassured her. It almost did.

But something about the certainty made it worse, not better.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means I’m not a man who bruises the help.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “But I am a man who gets what he wants. And what I want”, he tapped the contract with one finger, “is you. Your company. Your time. Your attention. Your compliance.”

Elena felt her pulse in her throat.

"And if I can't give you compliance?"

“I think you can and will.” He said it simply, without cruelty. “Most people do, once they see the shape of things clearly. And I expect you will as well.”

She sat with that for a moment. The room was silent except for the distant whisper of wind against the massive window. The lake stretched out beyond him, grey and endless, and she thought about how small she was in this space, in this world, in this man's hands.

"My company," she said. "Rossi Arts. What happens to it?"

"It becomes part of Thorn Holdings. The business will continue under our umbrella. Some of your current clients may be handled by my team, depending on what they require. Others may remain under your care. The same applies to your artists."

"And after three years? When the contract ends?"

“The assets, the contracts, the goodwill—they remain with Thorn Holdings. Rossi Arts, as a legal entity, will be returned to you. What remains of the business at the end of the term will depend on how well it performs under Thorn Holdings. If, at the end of the term, you choose to remain with Thorn Holdings, that option will also be available to you.”

She'd known that too. The contract didn't promise to return her company intact. It promised to return the name.

"You're taking everything I've built."

"I'm giving you three years to build it further." He met her eyes. "You chose to come here. You chose to accept the terms. I didn't force you to get into that car. I didn't force you to sit in this room and sign this contract. You came willingly."

"Because you left me no choice."

"You always have a choice." His voice dropped, quieter now, almost intimate. "You could have let Marco face the consequences of his decisions, like a responsible adult. You could have let the system handle his debt. You could have watched him fall and told yourself it was his fault, his mistake, his life to ruin. Plenty of people would have made that choice. But you didn't."

Elena's throat tightened. She looked down at her hands, at the contract open on the desk, at the yellow marks she'd spent hours making.

"He's my brother," she said, and the words came out rough.

"I know."

She looked up. There was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before. Not softness. Not warmth. But recognition. Like he understood what it meant to carry the weight of someone else's survival.

"What do you actually want from me?" she asked, and the question came from somewhere deeper than negotiation. "Not the contract terms. Not the company. Me. Why me?"

Liam Thorn was quiet for a long moment. The wind pressed against the window. A clock ticked somewhere in the room.

"Because you're the kind of woman who'd trade everything for someone she loves," he said finally. "And I want to know what that kind of loyalty looks like from the inside."

Elena held his gaze for a long moment, the weight of his answer settling into her chest like a stone dropped into calm water. Loyalty from the inside. She didn't know what that meant yet, but she knew she didn't like the way he said it—like she was a specimen under glass, something to be studied.

She looked down at the contract, at the yellow highlights bleeding through the page. Her fingers found the edge of the paper and smoothed it flat. Then she looked up again.

"The clothing clause." Her voice was quieter now, but steady. "You get to determine what I wear. Everything from the skin out, isn't that what it says?"

"It says I will provide your attire, accessories, and jewelry for the duration of the contract," he replied, his tone unhurried. "You will wear what I provide."

"I will not wear anything degrading in public."

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, perhaps. It was gone before she could be sure she'd seen it.

"This isn't negotiable for me."

"Define degrading."

She hesitated and he waited.

"That word is too vague," he said. "Try again."

She exhaled slowly. "No exposure that would affect my professional standing outside the arrangement."

"Accepted." He leaned back slightly, as though that had been the answer he'd expected all along.

The answer came so easily that she looked at him.

"I never intended to expose you in a way that would damage your professional standing, Miss Rossi."

Elena blinked. She hadn't expected that answer. For a moment, she wasn't sure what to make of him. She glanced down at the contract to continue and dismiss her confusion.

“What about communication?” she pressed. “The confidentiality clause says I can’t tell anyone about this agreement. Not my parents. Not Marco. Not Lisa.”

“That’s correct.”

“So I just disappear from their lives? For three years?”

“No.” His answer was immediate, as if he’d already accounted for the question. “You’ll take a position with a private international arts consultancy. Rossi Arts has been offered a selective partnership expansion under Thorn Holdings.”

He leaned back slightly. “The opportunity requires relocation and limited disclosure due to client confidentiality.”

“You’ll be able to call and text as normal,” he continued, “provided you don’t discuss your location, your work details, or your schedule. To everyone else, you are building a career that simply became larger than your current life.” A pause. “That is the story you will live inside.”

"And if they come looking for me?"

"Then my security team will inform them that you are safe and not to be disturbed. They are very good at being polite but firm."

Elena felt the walls closing in. She'd known all of this. She'd read every word. But hearing him say it, the words left his mouth and become real, making her stomach churn.

"Security." The word came out before she'd fully formed the thought. Elena's fingers curled against the leather armrest. "In the house, are there cameras? How much of my privacy am I actually giving up?"

Liam Thorn's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture changed. A fraction of a degree. Like he was recalibrating. "There are no cameras inside the manor."

She blinked. "None?"

"None." He said it flat, definitive. "The estate has perimeter security. Motion sensors along the tree line, thermal imaging at the gate, RFID tracking on the vehicles. Inside the house, there is nothing. No recording devices. No surveillance. The manor is my home, Miss Rossi. I don't live under observation, and I don't expect my residents to either."

Elena sat with that for a moment. The study was warm, and she could hear the faint sound of wind against the massive window. She hadn't realized she'd been bracing for the answer until the tension in her shoulders loosened by half a degree.

"So the cameras at the gate aren't—"

"For protection. Mine. Yours. Anyone who lives here." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The movement brought him closer, and she caught the cedar and something sharp again. "If someone comes through that gate who shouldn't be here, I know before they reach the front door. That's the purpose. Not to watch you sleep."

Her throat tightened at the phrase. Watch you sleep. She hadn't even thought of that possibility until he named it, and the fact that he'd named it so casually made her stomach turn.

"And my room?" she asked. "My private space?"

"Yours." His eyes held hers. "I won't enter without knocking. I won't install cameras. I have no interest in listening at your door." He said with a hint of an eye roll. “You'll have the same privacy here that you have in your apartment. More actually. Thicker walls and none with screwed-through peepholes."

For a moment, she wasn't sure if he was joking.

Then she thought about the building she lived in. The landlord who never fixed anything. The strangers who passed through the halls at all hours. The thought of a peephole somewhere in the walls.

The fact that she couldn't immediately dismiss the possibility bothered her more than she cared to admit.

"Okay." She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Okay. That—" She stopped. Swallowed. "That helps."

"Good." He continued. "I'm not interested in cruelty, Elena."

She looked down at the contract. Her fingers traced the edge of the page, the yellow highlights catching the lamplight. She'd spent the night marking this document, fighting it, trying to find a way through it that didn't end with her in a stranger's house, in a stranger's clothes, in a stranger's bed.

But there was no way through. There was only one.

"I'll sign." The words came out before she could stop them, and she felt something shift in the room. The air changed. The weight of the decision settled onto her shoulders like a coat that didn't fit. "But I have a condition."

Thorn's eyebrows rose. Not a surprise. Interest. "Name it."

"I still see my brother." She held his gaze, her voice steady. "Tomorrow. I need to make sure he doesn’t think I've disappeared or be left blaming himself."

"You can see him," he said. "But not here. Not at the manor. And you will stick to a story."

"A story?"

"You've taken a position with a private international arts consultancy which is how you can afford the debt. The role requires relocation and discretion. You can't discuss your work in detail. You can't share your location. You can't mention the contract, the debt, or any arrangement between us."

Elena's jaw tightened. She'd known this was coming. She'd read the confidentiality clause. But hearing him spell it out made it real in a way the printed words hadn't.

"So I lie to my brother."

"You protect him." Thorn's voice dropped, quieter now. "If Marco knew the truth, what would he do?"

She opened her mouth to answer, then stopped. She knew Marco. Knew his pride, his stubbornness, the way he'd never let anyone sacrifice for him. If he knew she'd given up her company, her freedom, so much of her life—he'd do something stupid. Something that would get him killed, or worse.

"He'd try to fix it," she said quietly. "He'd—" She stopped. Shook her head. "He'd do something reckless."

"Exactly." Thorn's voice was flat. Final. "The story protects him. It protects you. It protects the arrangement. As long as you stick to it, Marco stays safe, your parents stay ignorant, and you keep whatever peace you can carve out of this situation."

Elena stared at the contract. Her fingers were trembling. She pressed them flat against the paper to still them.

"And if I slip?" she asked. "If I tell him something I shouldn't?"

"Then the confidentiality clause activates, and the consequences are yours." His voice didn't change. "I suggest you don't slip."

She sat with that for a moment. The weight of it. The finality. She thought about Marco's face, the way he'd looked at her in that hospital room five years ago when she'd told him everything would be okay after he broke his arm. She thought about the debt, the number, the sheer impossibility of it.

And she thought about Liam Thorn, sitting across from her, waiting for her to make her choice.

"Fine." The word came out rough. She cleared her throat. "Fine. I'll stick to the story. I'll—" She stopped. Took a breath. "I'll tell him I'm traveling. That the consultancy requires confidentiality. That I can't talk about the details."

"Good."

"Okay." She reached into her bag and pulled out a pen. Black ink. The same pen she'd used to sign every important document in her life. "I’ll sign."

He slid a pen from his jacket pocket—silver, heavy, and expensive-looking.

She uncapped her pen. Pressed the tip to the signature line.

The ink settled into the paper as she wrote her name. Elena Rossi. Her hand stayed steady, the same signature she'd used on a hundred contracts for artists who trusted her with their work.

She set the pen down. Pushed the contract across the desk.

Thorn looked at the signature. Then he picked up his own pen, signed below hers in a sharp, precise hand, and set the contract aside.

"Welcome to Thorn Holdings," he said.