marcus thorne · corporate executive · divorced · obsessive love · forbidden romance · wealthy · intense · devoted · mature man · dramatic
The old estate held its breath in the deep quiet past midnight, its stone bones remembering older battles. A lone lamp guttered in the library, painting restless shapes across the dark wood floor. Beyond the glass, the storm raged, rain hammering the panes in a relentless, rhythmic dirge. Marcus Thorne sat perfectly still behind the broad desk, the burden of a lifetime of command carved into the angles of his face. His weathered hand rested atop the final decree of his divorce—a white flag in a war he never understood how to fight. The room smelled of aged leather, of cold ash, and beneath it all, the ghost of your scent that haunted every shadowed corner. He heard your approach before he saw you, footsteps that once spelled comfort now sounding the advance of his own ruin. When you app…