Rain fell in relentless sheets, blurring the neon signs of Manhattan into smears of electric color. Elara Bishop stood motionless before the granite edifice of Thorne Tower, its silvered windows reflecting the stormy sky like a wall of tarnished mirrors. Each drop that struck its surface seemed to echo the cold dread solidifying in her chest—the same dread she'd felt three days ago, sitting across from Mrs. Albright in the cramped, overheated office of Havenridge Orphanage.
"The bank is calling in the loan, Elara. Without an infusion... they'll foreclose by the end of the quarter."
The director's face, usually a mask of resilient optimism, had been pale, the lines around her eyes etched deep with a guilt that wasn't hers to bear. The solution, when it came, was absurd, a gothic fantasy ripped from a cheap paperback. Yet here Elara stood, her simple wool coat soaked through, about to sell herself to a man the financial blogs called "The Wolf of Wall Street"—a title they used with unsettling prescience.
Kaelan Thorne. CEO of a sprawling biotech and investment empire. Reclusive billionaire. And, according to the heavily redacted file a terrified Clara had shoved into her hands before disappearing, something else entirely. Something that required a "spousal proxy" to manage a "hereditary biological condition aggravated by lunar cycles."
A sleek black town car had whisked her from the orphanage's modest Queens neighborhood to this temple of glass and steel. The man who emerged from the building's shadows to meet her was not a corporate lackey. He moved with the fluid, coiled grace of a Special Forces operative, his gaze scanning the rain-swept street as if expecting an ambush.
"Lucas Vance. Head of Security." He didn't offer to take her bag, merely gestured for her to follow. "Mr. Thorne's time is valuable. Don't waste it with sentiment."
The lobby was a cavern of polished black stone and suspended art installations of twisted, gleaming metal. It was silent, save for the whisper of climate control and the click of her own impractical heels. They rode a private elevator that climbed too fast, her stomach lurching as digital numbers flickered toward the penthouse.
The doors slid open into a different world. The air here was still, cool, and smelled of sandalwood and ozone. The space was vast, a minimalist gallery where a single, brutalist sculpture stood sentinel before a wall of glass that looked out over the storm-lashed expanse of Central Park. It was a view that spoke of absolute dominion.
And there, silhouetted against the city's electric heart, was the man who owned it.
Kaelan Thorne turned. He was taller than she'd expected, his frame powerful beneath a impeccably tailored charcoal suit that cost more than Havenridge's annual grocery budget. He didn't offer a greeting, only a slow, assessing look that felt like a physical touch, stripping away her composure layer by layer. His hair was the color of wet slate, his features sharp enough to cut. But it was his eyes that held her—a piercing, unnerving shade of hazel, where flecks of gold seemed to swirl in the dim light, hinting at a feral intelligence within.
"Elara Bishop." His voice was a low baritone, the kind that vibrated in the bones. It was a voice used to command, to being obeyed without question.
She forced her chin up. "Mr. Thorne."
"Your sister," he began, dispensing with any pretense of pleasantry, "signed a binding agreement. Her flight constitutes a breach of contract. The consequences for such a breach are... severe." He gestured to a single sheet of vellum paper lying on a low, obsidian table. It was the proxy marriage addendum. "You are here to ratify it in her stead."
Elara's eyes flickered to the document, then back to his unyielding face. "Havenridge. The full endowment, wired upon signature. And the renovation clause—it remains?"
"A Thorne's word is his bond. The capital is ready to transfer. The architects are on retainer." He took a step closer, and the air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with a predatory energy that made the fine hairs on her arms stand erect. "But understand what you are agreeing to, Miss Bishop. This is not a conventional marriage. My... condition requires certain accommodations. Your presence is one of them. Permanently."
As if on cue, a sliver of brilliant white moonlight broke through the churning clouds, slicing across the room. It fell directly upon Kaelan Thorne. Elara saw it then—a subtle tightening of the skin around his eyes, a minute flaring of his nostrils. His hand, resting at his side, curled into a fist, the tendons standing in stark relief.
Lunar cycles. The phrase from the file echoed in her mind. She thought of the tabloid speculation about the Thorne family's "rare genetic disorder," the carefully managed PR that kept their secrets. She thought of Clara's terrified, whispered warnings about things that moved in the dark, about eyes that glowed