Four months.
122 days of a silence so profound it had become a physical presence in Cassian Thorne's world. The penthouse was no longer a home; it was a meticulously maintained crime scene, frozen in the moment she had left. Her book remained on the arm of the sofa, her favorite tea cup sat clean and empty in the cabinet, the wedding photo she had taken left a faint, square outline of dust on his nightstand.
Before Elara, Cassian had been a cyborg—a man of cool logic and relentless, emotionless efficiency. He had run his empire with a detached, algorithmic precision. Her arrival had thawed him, introduced warmth, friction, the glorious, unpredictable chaos of a human heart.
Now, he was something worse. He had become pure machinery. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, humming void. His emotions weren't buried; they had been incinerated, leaving only the ash of a singular, burning purpose: Find her.
His office at Thorne Global became a war room. The massive screen that once displayed stock tickers and global markets now showed a constantly shifting digital map of the world, dotted with red flags and lines of inquiry. He had a dedicated team, the best in private intelligence, digital forensics, and old-fashioned legwork. They reported only to him, in soundproofed rooms, at all hours.
He'd stare at the map, his eyes the color of a winter storm, and issue commands in a voice stripped of all inflection.
"Expand the radius to 500 miles.Check every midwife, every obstetrician who has taken on a new patient in the last four months."
"Track all bulk purchases of prenatal vitamins,folic acid, from online retailers to remote pharmacies."
"Follow Sophie Prescott.Discreetly. Log every move, every purchase, every call from a payphone."
Publicly, he was a masterpiece of deceit. He attended board meetings, his mask of impassive control flawless. He gave interviews about market stability. At a charity gala, when an elderly socialite asked, "And where is your lovely wife this evening, Cassian?" he didn't flinch. He offered a thin, practiced smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Elara is taking some well-deserved time for a personal project. She sends her regrets." The lie was smooth, cold, and utterly convincing.
But in private, the machinery broke down. Sleep was a forgotten concept. Meals were fuel, consumed without tasting. The only emotion that escaped the cold vault was a rage so deep it was tectonic—a fury directed at the family elders, at the ghost of his father, at the archaic decree, and most of all, at himself. He replayed their last days on a loop. The fear in her eyes when she asked about the decree. His pathetic, stammering evasion. He had vowed to protect her, and his own silence had been the weapon that drove her away.
He was a hunter scouring the earth for his most precious prey. And she, with the fierce, quiet intelligence he adored, had become a ghost.
---
In a sunny, suburban mall, life carried on with cheerful ignorance. In the bustling baby department of a large department store, Sophie Prescott pushed a cart that was piled high with a small arsenal of prenatal care. There were bottles of specialized body butter for stretching skin, boxes of ginger chews for nausea, prenatal vitamins the size of horse pills, soft, expandable maternity bras, and a giant, U-shaped pregnancy pillow.
She hefted it all onto the counter with a grunt. The middle-aged cashier beamed at her, her eyes crinkling.
"Oh, congratulations, dear!" the woman chirped as she began scanning. "When are you due? Is it your first?"
Sophie's cheeks flushed a bright pink. "Oh! No, no, no!" she waved her hands frantically. "I'm still very much single! This is all for my friend! She's… well, she's having a tough time, so I'm her shopping brigade."
The cashier's smile turned sympathetic. "Oh, my sincerest apologies, dear! That's so kind of you. She's lucky to have you."
"It's nothing, really," Sophie said, her usual bubbly energy returning. "What are friends for, right?"
Just then, a man's arm reached past her and deposited a basket on the counter beside her mountain of supplies. His basket was neatly organized with items from the newborn aisle: tiny bottles of hypoallergenic baby wash, tubes of diaper rash cream, packets of ultra-soft muslin cloths, and a gentle, lavender-scented lotion.
The man, who had a pleasant, open face and an easy posture, grinned at the cashier. "The bill, please. And for the record," he added, nodding toward Sophie's items, "I am also not an expectant parent."
The cashier looked from his basket of baby toiletries to Sophie's cart of maternal support, and her lips twitched. Sophie caught her eye, and a giggle escaped them both.
The man frowned, feigning offense. "Why is that funny? It's a logical clarification!"
Sophie, trying and failing to suppress her chuckles, turned to him. "Well, if it's not for a baby, sir, is all this… for you?" She gestured to the baby shampoo.
Now it was his turn to flush, his ears turning red. "Gosh, no!" he sputtered, running a hand through his hair. "It's for my sister! She just had a baby and is completely overwhelmed. I'm the helpful, favorite uncle."
"A likely story," Sophie shot back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Buying lavender baby lotion? That's a very specific choice for a 'favorite uncle.'"
"It's called being attentive!" he retorted, crossing his arms. "Maybe you should try it instead of buying enough supplies to open your own maternity ward."
"It's called being prepared! Something you clearly know nothing about, Mr. One-Basket-of-Baby-Wash!"
"At least my purchases are portable! You need a semi-truck!"
They were leaning toward each other over the counter now, engaged in a rapid-fire, completely pointless, yet weirdly enjoyable argument. The cashier watched them, a slow smile spreading across her face. They bickered with the familiar, comfortable rhythm of a long-married couple pretending to be strangers.
"Ahem," the cashier interjected gently. "Excuse me. How will you be paying? Card or cash?"
"Card," the man said immediately, pulling out his wallet.
"Cash," Sophie said at the same time, rooting in her purse.
The cashier smiled. "Alright. Sir, can I have a name for the card receipt?"
"Thomas Thorne," he said, sliding his platinum card across the counter.
The name hit Sophie like a bucket of ice water. All the playful color drained from her face. Thorne. Cassian's cousin. The single one. Clara's brother. A cold, sharp fear sliced through her. Had he been following her? Was this a setup?
She forced herself to breathe, to not look panicked. She counted out her cash with deliberate slowness, her mind racing.
Their items were bagged. As Thomas took his receipt, he turned back to Sophie, the teasing glint returning to his eyes. "So, if you're 'very much single,'" he said, quoting her with a smirk and nodding at her bags, "why the prenatal booty? Secret life?"
The fear instantly melted into pure, unadulterated irritation. Her face flushed a deeper red, this time from anger. "I am not pregnant!" she hissed, keeping her voice low. "It's for my friend, Eli—" She stopped dead, her blood running cold. She had almost said Elara. Her mouth snapped shut so hard her teeth clicked.
She coughed, turning away to gather her bags, her voice strained. "It's for my friend… Elizabeth. I'm just helping her out." She hoisted the heavy bags, wanting nothing more than to vanish.
But Thomas, intrigued by her sudden shift from fiery to frozen, gently caught her arm. "Wait."
Sophie stiffened, her heart hammering. He knows. He has to know.
"Btw," he said, his voice softer now, genuinely curious. "What's your name, beautiful lady with the mysterious pregnant friend?"
The "beautiful lady" almost disarmed her, but the Thorn name was a blaring alarm. "Sophie," she said shortly, pulling her arm free. "Now, if you'll please excuse me."
She turned to go, but he wasn't done. "Can I get your number, Ms. Sophie?" he asked, his tone light but hopeful.
"No," she said, the word final and sharp as a slammed door.
"Ouch," he winced, clutching his chest dramatically. "How ruthless."
"I'm being clear," Sophie stated, not looking back as she marched toward the exit. "Goodbye."
She disappeared into the mall's crowd, her mind a whirlwind of panic. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Almost saying her name! Talking to a Thorne!
Thomas watched her go, a thoughtful, playful smile on his lips. He wasn't put off by her rejection; he was fascinated. She was a whirlwind—feisty, kind, loyal, and hiding something that made her eyes go wide with fear.
"Sure, for now," he murmured to himself, tucking his wallet away. "Because you've definitely poked my interest. So, it's just a matter of time until our paths cross again." A determined, playful glint settled in his eyes.
He was so absorbed in the thought that he didn't notice the small figure approaching from behind until a sharp smack landed on the back of his head.
"Ow!" he yelped, spinning around.
Amelia Thorne stood there, hands on her hips, her expression one of supreme annoyance. "Why are you standing there grinning like an idiot? Did you get the stuff I asked for? The organic cotton onesies? The unscented wipes?"
Rubbing his head, Thomas handed her the bag. "Yes, yes, baby boss. Mission accomplished."
Amelia peeked inside, nodded in satisfaction, then her face lit up with a new idea. "Mmm… acceptable! Okay, now let's go to the arcade! I want to beat you at that racing game again!"
"Eh?" Thomas groaned. "I'm not your pack mule and punching bag, Amelia!"
She was already skipping away. "Don't 'eh' me! Talk less and follow! Last one to the food court is a rotten, month-old fish!" she called over her shoulder.
"Amelia! That's cheating! You have a head start!" he yelled, breaking into a jog after his tiny, tyrannical cousin.
Her laughter echoed back to him. "Oh, don't be such a bore, Thomas! Everything is fair in love and war!"
As he chased her, Thomas's mind drifted back to the fiery, fearful woman named Sophie. Love and war. He had a feeling that with her, it might just be both. And he found, for the first time in a long while, that the prospect didn't bother him at all.
Miles away, in a quiet room lit by a single lamp, Cassian stared at a grainy, enhanced screenshot from a mall security camera. It showed Sophie Prescott, her cart piled high, talking to a man at a counter. The report on his desk read: Subject S.P. made significant purchases in prenatal section. Engaged in prolonged conversation with male, identified as Thomas Thorne (cousin). Conversation appeared animated. No further contact observed.
Cassian's finger tapped the image of Thomas. A cousin. Innocent coincidence? Or a thread? His cold, mechanical mind processed it. Sophie was the link. Sophie was the key. He would watch. He would wait. The machinery of his hunt was patient, and it was closing in, one pixelated image, one purchased prenatal vitamin, one fearful glance at a time..