And what the fuck had I done to her? Not only had I ignored the abuse she suffered while alive, I'd thrown her ashes in the trash after she died. I lowered my head, kissed the box again and again, tasted despair.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."
I apologized for my ambition and my coldness.
"I hurt you the most, Anthea."
Not Vanessa. Not anyone else. Me.
My gaze fell on the bottom drawer of my desk. I stood with the urn, walked to the desk. Inside was a Colt revolver—the one my father had given me at my mother's funeral when I was eight.
"Thorne men don't need tears. Only bullets," he'd said.
I picked it up. The grip felt familiar, calming. I thought of the rainy night my mother died. She'd lain in a pool of blood while my father stood nearby, face blank.
"She betrayed the family," was all he'd said.
Fear had choked my tears. After that, to survive, I'd become the same monster as my father—cold, ruthless, living only for power. I thought my heart would never beat for anything again.
But Anthea appeared. My father's purchase, a surrogate from a bankrupt middle-class family. First time I saw her at the manor, she wore a white knee-length dress, blonde hair blazing, like a fallen angel. Her eyes were the cleanest amber I'd ever seen. Beautiful. Pure.
"I know I was bought by you," she'd said, chin lifted, voice trembling but every word clear. "I'll fulfill my duties."
So strange. This woman, a head shorter than me, dared to look me in the eye like that. My men didn't even breathe loudly around me.
When did I start looking forward to coming back to the manor? When did I start drifting during negotiations, wondering what Anthea was doing?
I didn't know. I only knew that after she appeared, everything changed. I wasn't myself anymore. I should've realized my feelingsearlier, told her I loved her, that I'd protect her. But all I ever did was hurt her.
Cold steel pressed against my temple. I closed my eyes, finger on the trigger, applied slight pressure. Just once. All the pain, all the regret would end. I could find Anthea in hell, kneel before her, beg her forgiveness.
Anthea's smiling face floated through my mind.
Then—
"Waaah—" A piercing cry rang out.
My finger froze. A baby's cry. That was... Olei's cry. The crying grew louder, full of distress and need. The child Anthea had traded her life for. If I died, what happened to him? Would my enemies spare him? What would my father and Vanessa teach him?
"Damn it... damn it!" I hurled the gun at the wall, gasping for air. I couldn't die. I had no right to die. This child was what Anthea had saved with her life.
I set the urn gently on the desk, then staggered out of the study.
"What's going on?" I shoved open the nursery door.
The nanny stood at the formula station, mixing powder. At my voice, she jumped, nearly dropping everything. She rushed to explain. "S-sir... the baby just woke hungry. I'm making his bottle. Just a few more minutes."
I nodded. I had no experience with this. I walked to the crib, looked down at the tiny thing. He was crying, face red, little hands waving helplessly in the air. My chest ached. I reached down and lifted Olei up. He cried harder.
"Don't cry." I patted his back awkwardly. "Olei. I'm your father."
I used a gentle tone I'd never used before, patient. The tiny thing in my arms slowly stopped crying. He stared at me with those tear-filled amber eyes.
God. Exactly like Anthea's look.
Pain crashed over me again, but this time it carried something heavy. Responsibility.
"I'll love you for your mother," I buried my face in the baby's soft blanket. "I'll take care of you. Watch you grow up."
