Chapter 6: Thorne Family Warfare

Chapter 6: Thorne Family Warfare

The Thorne family estate in Connecticut was a place where history had weight. It settled on the heavy mahogany furniture, clung to the dark, oppressive damask curtains, and stared out from the gilded frames of ancestral portraits lining the grand dining room. It was a house built on old money and older resentments, and tonight, the air was thick enough to choke on.

Julian sat at the head of the long, polished table, a king in a court he despised. The phantom warmth of Elara’s skin, the memory of his child’s kick against his palm, was a secret armor he wore beneath his tailored suit. It was the only real thing in this room of polished lies.

Across from him, his father, Augustus Thorne, swirled a blood-red wine in his glass, his expression one of perpetual, weary disapproval. His mother, Beatrice, picked at her lobster, her face a carefully maintained mask of social grace that couldn't quite hide her anxiety over the "unpleasantness" at the gallery opening. And beside her, smiling his easy, charming smile, was Marcus.

“A bold move, Julian, opening a public gallery,” Augustus began, his voice a low rumble of condescension. “A rather… conspicuous venture for a man who values his privacy.”

“Art should be seen,” Julian replied, his voice flat and cold. “Some things shouldn't be kept locked away in the dark.” His gaze flickered to Marcus, a silent, razor-sharp warning.

Marcus, oblivious or perhaps simply arrogant, chuckled. “Well, I thought it was a triumph. A shame about the little scene at the end, though. One has to be so careful who one lets into our world. Some people just can’t handle the pressure.”

That was it. The opening Julian had been waiting for.

He calmly placed his silver fork and knife down on his plate, the quiet clink echoing in the sudden silence. “You’re right, Marcus. One does have to be careful. In fact, that’s what I wanted to discuss tonight. Family business.”

Beatrice stiffened. “Julian, darling, not at the dinner table. It’s so dreary.”

“This is anything but dreary, Mother,” Julian said, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet tone that commanded more attention than a shout ever could. He reached into his suit jacket and produced the sleek, dark tablet from his office. He placed it on the pristine white tablecloth between his plate and his father’s.

“Six months ago,” Julian began, his eyes locked on Marcus, “I was presented with evidence that Elara Vance—the woman carrying my child—had betrayed me.”

A collective gasp went through the room. Beatrice’s hand flew to her pearls. Augustus’s eyes narrowed. “Your child? Julian, what is the meaning of this foolishness?”

“The meaning,” Julian continued, ignoring his father, “is that I was a fool. I was given proof so convincing, so perfectly tailored to my own damn fears, that I threw away the only person who has ever been loyal to me without wanting a single thing in return.”

He tapped the screen of the tablet. “Marcus, you’ve always been interested in technology. I had a digital forensics team do a deep dive on the evidence I was given. They’re very thorough. They can trace metadata, pixel degradation, embedded software signatures… all the little fingerprints a manipulator leaves behind.”

Marcus’s charming smile began to twitch at the edges. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. “Julian, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Julian’s voice was silk-wrapped steel. He swiped the screen. “Here is the photo I was shown.”

He turned the tablet for the table to see. It showed the image that had shattered his world: Elara, laughing, her hand covered by the hand of his corporate rival.

“And here,” he said, swiping again, “is the original file, pulled from the café’s security camera footage, which my team acquired this morning.”

The new image was nearly identical, but fatally different. The rival was gone. In his place sat a young woman with bright red hair—Elara’s friend, Sarah. The rival’s hand, so damning in the first photo, was nowhere to be seen. He was a ghost, photoshopped into existence.

“You see,” Julian explained to the stunned table, “Marcus was clever. He didn't just create a fake photo. He created a narrative. He fed me text messages he’d spoofed. He gave me a timeline of secret meetings that never happened. He did it because he knew I’ve spent my life watching my back, even from the people in this room.”

“This is insane!” Marcus blustered, his face turning a blotchy red. “Why would I do that? He’s my cousin!” He turned to Augustus and Beatrice, desperate. “He’s been under a lot of stress. And that girl—we all know her type. She obviously clouded his judgment!”

Julian laughed, a short, ugly sound devoid of all humor. “Oh, there was a reason. While I was reeling from the ‘betrayal,’ you approached two of my board members, didn’t you, Marcus? You suggested I was becoming emotionally unstable. That perhaps the company needed a steadier hand. Your hand, specifically.”

The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place, and the room fell into a tomb-like silence. Augustus stared at his nephew, his son, the tablet—the pieces of his family’s implosion laid bare on the dinner table.

“You son of a bitch,” Julian whispered, the raw fury finally breaking through his controlled facade. “You tried to ruin her. You tried to poison me against my own child. All for a seat at my table you were too weak and worthless to ever earn for yourself.”

He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the floor. “As of this moment, you are no longer a part of this family. Your trust fund is frozen. Your shares in Thorne Industries will be bought out at yesterday’s closing price, and I expect your resignation from every board you sit on by morning. If you refuse, I will not only release this evidence to the press, I will personally fund your rivals and bury you so deep you’ll never see daylight again. You will have nothing.”

Marcus looked like he’d been physically struck, his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out.

Beatrice finally found her voice, a horrified wail. “Julian! The scandal! Think of the family name!”

Julian turned his cold, burning gaze on his mother, then his father. “The family name? This family is built on whispers and betrayal. You were so eager to believe the worst of her because she wasn’t from our world. You stood by and watched.” He shook his head, a look of final, profound disillusionment on his face. “I’m done. My family is in a penthouse in Manhattan, waiting for me. Elara. Our child. That is my family. The rest of you are just relations.”

He didn't look back. He strode out of the oppressive dining room, leaving the wreckage of his past behind him. He walked through the grand foyer, past the portraits of dead Thornes, and out into the crisp night air.

The war was over. He had publicly vindicated Elara. He had shattered his family’s pristine image to protect hers. The catastrophic fallout was their problem now, not his. He got into his car and sped away from the estate, the oppressive weight of his history finally lifting from his shoulders. He had burned down the past. Now he had to drive home and prove he was capable of building a future.