CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

That was all.

No theatrics. No screaming. Just pure ice.

I muttered, "Son of a—"

I shoved the phone into the cupholder, restarted the ignition, and veered out into the lane. I wasn't going to that restaurant anymore.

I was going to Melody.

Traffic hit me halfway through the route, cars inching forward, pressed together like sandwiches. I tapped the wheel with restless fingers, checking my phone screen every few seconds for any text, any call, any hint that she might be in danger.

Nothing.

So, I called her. But, she wasn't picking. That quickened my anxiety.

When I finally pulled up to Dallas Complex, I was a breath away from panic. Her place was at the top — the penthouse. I bolted through the massive lounge, ignored the flirtatious receptionist and the guy in a tux trying to sell luxury watches, and hit the elevator.

I jammed the button for the top floor.

Come on… come on…

The doors slid open with a chime. I shot out like a bullet.

Two security guards turned to stop me, their arms rising like synchronized barriers. "Sir—"

Then one of them squinted. Recognition flared in his gaze. He lowered his arm.

"It's fine," he muttered to the other. "Let him through."

I didn't wait for permission. I dashed down the hall, straight for the glittering black double doors.

I hit the bell once.

Twice.

Three times.

No answer.

By the fourth ring, I was pounding the door with my fist. "Melody! Open up!"

Silence.

Then—

The lock clicked.

The door eased open.

And there she was.

Melody. Dressed in soft blue silk, her eyes wide and just a little smudged at the corners, like she hadn't slept right. Her lipstick was flawless. Her nails sharp. Her presence still managed to make me catch my breath — even now, even in panic.

She blinked up at me. "Sinclair?"

I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders softening only slightly. "You okay?"

She nodded, then frowned. "Why are you—?"

"I heard the message," I interrupted.

Her expression crumpled. "I didn't want you to—"

"I know." I stepped forward, voice lower now. "But this isn't just about me anymore."

I looked over her shoulder, scanning the penthouse for signs of entry. Movement. Anything off.

"Can I come in?"

She blinked like I'd just asked her to bring me the moon, gift-wrapped, with a ribbon of her own veins. Her lips parted slightly, about to form words that no doubt would sound a lot like "Are you insane?"

But before she could speak, a voice cut through the penthouse like a knife through velvet—sharp, heavy, unmistakably male.

"Is that you, Chase?"

Melody froze.

I didn't.

My eyes flicked toward the source, and I stepped past her.

The hallway embraced me into its golden glow, all crystal light fixtures and moneyed silence. Then I saw him—Mr. Thorne. Melody's father. The man behind half the headlines in the city and the kind of legacy that left blood stains in polished boardrooms.

He was perched at the far end of the long dining table like a king in a castle—only his throne was velvet and modern, and instead of a crown, he wore a steel-gray suit and the kind of confidence that couldn't be faked.

He was eating steak. Gracefully, like it was an art form.

"Mr. Thorne," I said, smooth. Controlled. Cool as a marble counter top. "I didn't know Melody had you over."

His eyes cut to me, sharp enough to slice through my lie if he wanted to. But he didn't challenge it. Instead, he gestured to the seat beside him with a flick of his fingers—no hesitation, no warmth.

"Sit," he said.

That tone? Razor blade. No room for negotiation.

I slid into the chair, posture relaxed but not too relaxed. Calculated ease. Beside me, Melody moved like a ballerina in slow motion and took her place on the other side of him. Her eyes flicked to mine—calm, almost… triumphant.

"I assume you already know why I wanted to speak with you," Mr. Thorne said, swirling his wine. The glass caught the light and cast a blood-red halo on the tablecloth.

I kept my tone light. "I've got a few guesses but I certainly am not here for that purpose."

"Melody," he said, without looking at her, "told me about her… aspirations."

My brows lifted, just slightly. "Aspirations?"

"To marry you."

I didn't blink. Didn't flinch. But my spine went still, tight under my shirt. My fingers curled slightly around the edge of my chair. "I see."

"She says she wants the wedding to happen by the time she's made editor-in-chief at the company. That's next month."

There was a moment of silence. A heavy one.

Then I turned, glanced at Melody.

She was smiling.

Not a grin. Not a smirk. A soft, gentle smile. The kind that said Yes, Daddy's telling the truth. Yes, I meant it. Yes, you're mine. I smiled back.

Mr. Thorne continued, lifting his wineglass and sipping slowly.

"She's also asked that you both settle in Tessal. Move in with her in two weeks. Begin the wedding preparations."

My jaw ticked. Just slightly. "That's… ambitious."

"She's a Thorne," he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

But then he leaned forward, the air around us thickening.

"She had her doubts, though."

I looked at him fully now. "About the wedding?"

"About whether any of it would be possible," he said. "Because you are currently handling a case that has become a dead end."

My pulse picked up.

"The Dear Dairy case," he added, dropping the name like a stone into water.

Right.

"She was worried," he continued, "that you wouldn't be able to wrap it in time. And she had been so worried that she tried to revoke your license."

I said nothing. Just waited.

"She didn't tell me, of course. Not directly. But word reached me through one of my staff at DailyNow. That she was planning to use her influence to revoke your license."

Melody didn't deny it.

I raised an eyebrow. "And you… reassured her?"

"I told her everything would be fine," he said, setting his glass down with a soft, deliberate clink. "Because I found a solution."

Now I leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued.

He smiled—not warmly, but the way a man smiles when he knows something you don't.

"Saavni Monk."

The name landed like a load of brick.

I knew it.

"She's a reporter at DailyDaily," he said. "She worked the Serial Killer case. Her boss—her mentor—was once the lead on it."

"And then he turned up dead," I said.

"Yes," Mr. Thorne replied, steepling his fingers. "And it was later discovered they had a falling out. A rather public one."

My throat went dry. "You're going to pin the murder on her."

He didn't confirm it.

He didn't have to.

He just looked at me with those heavy, father-of-the-empire eyes and said, "She's the perfect candidate. No close family. No loyal allies. A history of friction. And a deep desperation to prove herself."

I exhaled through my nose. "You're going to bury her."

"I'm going to secure my daughter's future," he said coolly.

I turned to Melody again.

She was still smiling. That same soft smile.

"So, do not worry about the case again. You are rounding up your first article research and moving in with her in two weeks."

I bit on my lower lip.

"This is about my daughter. I do not want wish for any man to sabotage my daughter's future."

"Definitely. I also wouldn't want to do that to Melody.,"

"Of course," Mr. Thorne said, "you'll need to play your part. If you want to be part of this family."

I looked at him. Then at the steak knife by his plate.

Then back at him.