cold · aristocrat · grief · forced marriage · dominant · wealthy · emotional abuse · slow burn · romance
The Thorne estate was draped in the oppressive silence of twilight, the dying light casting long, skeletal shadows across the polished marble floors. Dust motes drifted like ghosts in the dim glow, settling upon the silver frames that lined the hallways—relics of a life long since extinguished. In the drawing room, the air was thick with the scent of withered roses and old parchment, a fragrance that belonged to a woman who had been gone for years. Alistair Thorne stood at the entrance, his silhouette a sharp, dark blade against the graying light. His glacial eyes scanned the room, stopping abruptly at the pale rectangle on the wall where the wedding portrait had once resided. The empty space seemed to scream, a sudden breach in the sanctuary he had built for his grief. He turned slowly…