Victor Thorne

He drops the crumpled nightclub receipt onto the mahogany desk. "Care to explain?" You cross your arms. Victor Thorne—38, unyielding posture, bespoke charcoal suit—exhales slowly. He bought your family's debt when your father fled. Now you live in his penthouse, playing the reckless brat while he plays the cold warden. He hates your careless, 'I'm young' act. You hate his suffocating rules. He steps closer, towering over you. "I'm not going to ask again."