Oh hell no. I am not spending three months with a man I want to hate fuck.
“I live in Canada, kid,” he replies, cold as his eyes.
“Then why do you have a house in Anchorage?” Madison asks.
Of all the Blackstones in this room, she picks the one built entirely out of walls.
“I’m rich. Rich people tend to have multiple homes.” All casual dismissiveness vanishes when he asks, “And how do you know where I live?”
“Google.” She rolls her eyes. “And like you said, people work remotely all the time. If you're so rich and powerful, I'm sure you can manage it for three months from one of your homes,” she shoots back.
If this wasn’t my life spiraling. I’d be proud of my little sister’s quick wit. Instead, I’m frozen watching the next three months of my life play out before me.
“Why the hell would you want to live with me?” Thorne asks.
“Because you remind me of Dad.” Madison’s words are simple. Direct.
For half a second, there’s a crack in his composure. It’s a tightness around his eyes, a barely-there flinch before he locks it down. Then his too-handsome face could be carved from stone.
“I can keep going to my school. Stay in my routine,” she finishes.
“Fuck no,” he says flatly.
He runs a hand through his thick hair. “I don’t have room.”
Lillianna laughs. “I’m a spoiled rich girl, and even I know how messed up that sounds. You have what, ten, fifteen bedrooms?”
“Which are full.”
“With what? Your ego?” Rosalia mutters.
In different circumstances, I think I could be best friends with these two women.
Thorne ignores them, his attention fixed on Madison. “You want family bonding? Fine. We’ll treat you like the bad shot in the dark you are and set you up in a house and have visitation with you every other weekend.”
Madison flinches.
“Wow,” I gasp. “Youarean asshole.”
“Yup, just like Dad,” Madison says, and my heart breaks a little for her. I hope like hell our mother didn’t treat her the same. Like a mistake, or worse, a bargaining chip in her relationship with Louis. God knows she never figured out how to be what either of us needed.
“Go back to Quebec, Thorne. She can stay with me,” Lillianna offers.
“Which is with me,” Thorne grates. “I’m not running a fucking hostel.”
“It’s fine. You won’t even be there,” his sister replies.
He leans forward. “I’m not returning to Canada. At least not until this mess is sorted.”
My stomach bottoms out. No. Go back to Canada.
“Why do you need to stay?” I ask before I can control my damn mouth. Which earns me questioning looks from everyone but Thorne.
I don’t care. Even if my work gives me the time off, I can’t do three months with him. He might be a liar and an asshole, but the memory of how he made me feel is impossible to forget.
His gaze bores into mine, and for a split second, I see a flicker of heat before his expression cools to something calculating. “I’m not returning to Quebec while a fourteen-year-old holds a loaded gun to our family’s head. Crisis management is about controlling the narrative.” He leans back in his chair with the easy confidence of someone who’s played this game before. “My name is on those environmental papers. My reputation is tied to those acquisitions. If I’m in Canada and this blows up, I look guilty. If I’m here, handling it,” his smile is sharp. “I look responsible. Invested. Like a Blackstone who gives a damn about the family legacy.”
He says it's strategy. But a man who only cares about strategy doesn't volunteer to shoulder his father's sins.
