Enter the Thorne
It’s never a good sign when someone enters a room like they own it—
especially when it’s your room.
Especially when their smirk says, “I read your secrets for breakfast.”
Levi Thorne strolls into the conference hall of Lancaster & Co. at precisely 8:59 a.m.
Not 9:00. Not a second late.
He arrives with a custom-tailored charcoal suit, a jawline sculpted by betrayal, and a confidential file with my name on it.
I don’t know that yet, of course.
All I know is that he walks like every floor is a runway and talks like he’s permanently auditioning for “Most Punchable Face in America.”
“Miss Lancaster,” he says with a voice like smoke and charm. “I believe I’m your new rival. Or—coworker. Whichever gets me less murdered.”
I don’t blink. “Try ‘temporary inconvenience.’”
Dark chuckles around the table. Levi smirks wider.
God help me, his teeth sparkle like he flosses with privilege.
He drops his leather folder onto the table with a satisfying thud and sits across from me, legs wide, confidence wider.
There’s something about him that feels… wrong.
The kind of wrong that smells like expensive cologne and distant daddy issues.
The kind of wrong I’d normally enjoy ruining for sport.
But today, I just want him gone.
Lancaster & Co. doesn’t take outsiders. We bury them under NDAs and lawsuits. But ever since our firm merged with the thorn in my side—yes, pun intended—Thorne Strategies, I’ve been told to “play nice.”
I don’t play.
I win.
And I know men like him. They come with teeth and targets. Always charming. Always calculating. Always dangerous.
Which is why I don’t flinch when he slides a coffee across the table toward me.
“Triple shot oat milk latte,” he says, as if he didn’t just insult me with good taste. “No sugar. Like your personality, I presume?”
“Oh, that’s sweet,” I say, sipping it with a smile. “But if I wanted poison from a pretty mouth, I’d kiss my ex.”
The intern in the corner chokes on his water.
Levi raises one brow. “You have an ex? Brave man.”
I lean forward, voice low and velvet-sharp.
“He’s buried. Spiritually.”
The meeting drones on—blah blah merger synergy, blah blah corporate alignment—but my eyes keep flicking back to Levi.
Something is off. His posture is too relaxed. His notes are blank. His smile is too polished. I’ve seen smiles like that before. Usually before someone leaks a scandal to the press and disappears into the Cayman Islands.
He’s not here to merge.
He’s here to watch.
And if I know anything, it’s this:
When a man this charming walks in, he’s either selling lies or hiding them.
Maybe both.
After the meeting, I find him in the elevator. Alone. Of course.
“Careful, Thorne,” I say, stepping in. “You might mistake proximity for permission.”
He leans against the wall, eyes dancing. “Permission for what?”
“To exist in my line of sight,” I say.
He presses the button to the top floor, where my office is.
“Lucky me.”
Silence simmers. The air smells like ambition and lust. And too much Dior Sauvage.
“I’ve read your file,” he says casually.
“Oh?” I fold my arms. “Did it come with a trigger warning?”
“Just a red stamp that said ‘Do Not Engage Unless Armed.’ I found that… intriguing.”
“You’d find a snake charming if it smiled at you.”
He steps closer. There’s less than a foot between us now.
“Do you always flirt like it’s a fencing match?”
“Only when the opponent’s dumb enough to think he’s winning.”
The elevator dings. Doors open. I step out first.
But not before I hear him murmur behind me, almost amused, almost admiring—
“God, you’re going to ruin me, aren’t you?”
Later That Night – Levi’s POV
I watch Wren Lancaster through the glass wall of her office. She’s in her element—head buried in crisis notes, heels on her desk, a phone wedged between shoulder and cheek as she commands someone to “shred the damn footage before Channel 7 breathes on it.”
I should hate her.
But it’s hard to hate someone who’s everything you’re supposed to destroy… and everything you weren’t supposed to want.
The file I have on her is thick. She’s the only threat to my real plan—the one I can’t afford anyone knowing. Especially not her.
And yet here I am, three hours into this assignment, thinking about her lipstick shade and the way she threatens people with compliments.
She’s brilliant. Untouchable.
And for this to work, I need her to fall.
Hard.
But what if I’m the one already slipping?
Wren Lancaster’s Office – 9:27 PM
I know he’s still watching me.
Levi Thorne is many things—annoying, cocky, entirely too symmetrical—but discreet isn’t one of them.
His reflection shimmers faintly in the glass across from me, lingering outside my office like a ghost with good hair.
“Do you plan on lurking until I file a restraining order,” I call out, not looking up from my screen, “or do you just enjoy haunting strong women at work?”
There’s a pause. Then the door creaks open.
He steps in like the devil walking into church—confident, charming, unapologetic.
“Neither,” he says smoothly. “But I do like strong women. Especially the terrifying kind.”
I glance up, arch a brow. “Careful. I bite.”
His eyes flicker with mischief. “So do I. But only when asked nicely.”
God, he’s impossible.
A talking HR violation wrapped in Tom Ford.
“What do you want, Thorne?” I ask, closing my laptop. “Aside from a tragic death by stapler.”
“I want to collaborate,” he says, stepping closer. “On the Delacroix case. PR’s a mess. Scandal, missing assets, a pregnant mistress, a yacht that mysteriously caught fire…”
“Not mysterious,” I interrupt. “The wife set it on fire. She signed it with lipstick on the hull.”
“Ah, a romantic.”
“She used Chanel ‘Rouge Fatal’,” I add. “That’s not a woman who regrets anything.”
Levi whistles, impressed. “I like your style, Lancaster. You make vengeance look... chic.”
“You make compliments sound like threats,” I reply. “Now what’s your angle?”
He shrugs, sauntering over to my liquor cabinet without asking—bold. He pours himself a glass of my aged whiskey—criminal—and plops onto my client couch like he pays rent here—deadly.
“No angle. Just curiosity,” he says, sipping. “You’re a legend in this industry. I wanted to see if the rumors were true.”
I lean against my desk. “Which ones?”
He smirks. “The one where you fired a senator’s legal team with a sticky note?”
“True,” I reply, deadpan. “It read: ‘Try harder. You’re boring.’”
He laughs—loud, genuine. It catches me off guard.
“So what’s the rumor about you, Thorne?” I ask, arms folded. “That you seduce secrets out of people and vanish before breakfast?”
“No,” he says, lips tilting. “That I don’t vanish.”
For a moment, the room shifts. The teasing dips into something... sharper. More electric.
“You’re not fooling me,” I murmur.
His smile falters, just slightly. “Is that a warning?”
“It’s a promise.”
Outside – Rooftop Parking Lot – 10:04 PM
The city glows below, loud and messy, just how I like it.
I step into the night air to clear my head, only to find him again—Levi Thorne, leaning against my car like it’s an accessory.
“Do you moonlight as a stalker or is this just casual obsession?” I ask, arms crossed.
He grins. “Neither. I just forgot where I parked. And then I saw your face and thought—what better place to be insulted one last time?”
I don’t laugh. I smirk. “Bold of you to assume it’ll be the last.”
He steps closer, serious for the first time.
“I know you think I’m here to play games.”
“You are,” I say flatly.
He pauses. “Maybe. But if I am… I think you’re playing too.”
I should deny it. Walk away. Get in my car and drive off like a boss in a revenge movie.
Instead, I stay.
“I don’t play games, Thorne,” I say, my voice low. “I run the whole damn arcade.”
We stand there, inches apart, electricity crackling between two people who were never supposed to want each other. Who were supposed to be enemies. Rivals. Saboteurs.
But something is shifting. Dangerous. Magnetic.
His voice dips to a whisper. “Then I guess I’ll need extra tokens.”
I should slap him.
Instead, I almost kiss him.
But I don’t. I slide into my car, window down, lips curling.
“Drive safe, villain,” I murmur. “Would be a shame if you died before I finished humiliating you.”
He watches me drive off with the kind of look that says she’s going to be the death of me—and I can’t help but grin.
Let the war begin.
