The Thorne-Vane penthouse didn't feel like a home. It felt like a museum—cold, expensive, and designed to make anyone inside feel small.
Nyra stood in the middle of the marble foyer, a single suitcase at her feet. This was all she had left of her life as Julian's wife. Her designer dresses, her jewelry, even her wedding ring—Alaric's lawyers had seized it all to "offset the interest" on her father's debt.
"Standing there won't pay back thirty million, Nyra."
Alaric appeared at the top of the glass staircase. He had shed his suit jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He looked less like a CEO and more like a king surveying a new territory.
"Where is my room?" Nyra asked, her voice echoing in the hollow space.
"In the east wing. Next to mine," Alaric said, descending the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. He stopped on the final stair, placing him a head taller than her. "But before you unpack, we need to discuss the rules of this house. My brother might have let you run wild, but I am not Julian."
Nyra felt a sting at the mention of her late husband. "I am a forensic accountant, Alaric. Not a prisoner. I don't need a list of rules."
"You are whatever I say you are," he countered, his voice dropping an octave. He pulled a slim tablet from his pocket and tapped the screen. "Rule number one: You do not leave this penthouse without my permission. Rule number two: You are on call twenty-four hours a day. If I am working at 3 AM, you are working at 3 AM."
Nyra's jaw tightened. "That's literal slavery."
"That is employment for a debtor," Alaric snapped. "Rule number three: No guests. Rule number four: You do not mention Julian's name in my presence. He is dead because of your family's incompetence. I won't have his ghost haunting my hallways."
The cruelty in his words felt like a physical blow. Nyra stepped forward, her eyes flashing. "He loved me, Alaric. That's what you can't stand, isn't it? He had a heart, and you only have a ledger."
In a flash, Alaric's hand was on the wall behind her head, pinning her in place. He leaned in so close she could smell the faint scent of sandalwood on his skin and the dark, dangerous heat radiating from him.
"Rule number five," he whispered, his eyes dark with a sudden, flickering intensity. "Do not test my patience. I didn't bring you here to be a companion. I brought you here to work. If you fail to balance the Thorne-Vane books by the end of the quarter, your father goes to a state prison. Do I make myself clear?"
Nyra stared into his eyes, refusing to look down. For a moment, the air between them vibrated with a tension that wasn't just hatred. It was a spark of something forbidden—a desire that made her pulse race against her will.
"Crystal," she spat.
"Good." Alaric pulled away, the cold mask returning to his face. "Dinner is at eight. Wear something that doesn't make you look like a tragic cliché. My business partners are coming over, and you will be introduced as my new consultant. If you embarrass me, I'll add another million to your debt."
He turned and walked toward his study, leaving Nyra trembling with a mix of rage and a fear she didn't want to admit.
She was in the lion's den now. And the lion was hungry.