Chapter 7
The morning sun rose bright and harsh, casting long shadows across the ruined grand dining hall of the Thorn estate. The staff had spent the entire night scrubbing blood and wine from the Persian rugs, but the lingering scent of panic still hung heavily in the air.
Edward Thorn sat at the head of the polished oak table, nursing a cup of black coffee. He looked every bit his seventy years today, his fair, rosy skin pale and deeply lined with exhaustion. The headache pounding behind his eyes was relentless.
The heavy mahogany doors opened, and Marguerite stepped into the room. The golden child of the family looked absolutely horrific. The right side of her face was wrapped in thick, white medical bandages. Her eye was swollen shut, and her jaw was wired to stabilize the fractures caused by the shattering porcelain. She moved slowly, wincing with every step, the vicious superiority entirely beaten out of her.
"How are the painkillers?" Edward asked coldly, not offering a shred of sympathy. He viewed weakness with absolute disgust.
Marguerite mumbled something incoherent through her wired jaw, waving a dismissive hand as she slumped into a chair near the head of the table.
"I have already contacted the family attorneys," Edward continued, setting his coffee cup down with a sharp clack. "I am having Linnea entirely disinherited by noon today. I will ensure she doesn't see a single penny from the trust. Let her starve in that pathetic apartment with those brats."
Marguerite nodded enthusiastically, a vindictive gleam in her one good eye.
"Her little tantrum last night was a disgrace," Edward sneered, leaning back in his chair. "Threatening us as she walked out the door. 'Enjoy your last meal.' Pathetic. She has absolutely no power, no leverage, and no money."
As if on cue, the heavy doors to the dining hall burst open again.
Elias, the family’s senior financial controller, rushed into the room. The man was practically hyperventilating, his expensive suit rumpled, a thick folder of documents clutched desperately to his chest.
"Edward! Sir!" Elias gasped, dropping the heavy folder directly onto the polished oak table. Papers spilled out, covered in bright red stamps. "We have a catastrophic situation."
"Calm yourself, Elias," Edward barked, irritated by the interruption. "What is it?"
"It's everything," Elias stammered, pulling a specific document from the pile with trembling hands. "At 6:00 AM this morning, our primary holding company was hit with a massive, coordinated hostile takeover. A foreign acquisitions firm bought up every outstanding debt marker we owe to the suppliers. They called them all in simultaneously."
Edward sat up straight, the irritation vanishing into sudden, sharp concern. "What do you mean they called them in? We have grace periods."
"Not anymore, sir. The firm bought the debt and triggered the default clauses," Elias explained, sweating profusely. "They froze our operating accounts an hour ago. Sir... the Thorn empire is completely locked out of the market."
"Who did this?!" Edward roared, slamming his fist on the table, rattling the china. "Who the hell has the capital to freeze my accounts in six hours?!"
"The firm is called Apex Holdings, sir," Elias whispered, terrified of the answer. "But the sole proprietor... the name on the execution order..."
Elias flipped to the last page of the document and pointed a shaking finger at the signature line.
May you like
Edward looked down. The color drained entirely from his face as he read the name printed in bold, black ink.
Linnea Thorn.
