"This one?" Xavier Thorne asked, turning slightly before the full-length mirror in his cavernous dressing room.
Finn Young, his long-suffering analyst, stifled a sigh. "Looks… impeccable, sir. Like the previous twenty-four." *Dear God,* he thought numbly, *twenty-five white suits.* To his resolutely heterosexual eye, they were indistinguishable. The same meticulous parade of ivory, cream, and bone-white wool and silk. The glasses weren't much better – variations on silver or gold wireframes, subtle differences lost on anyone not Xavier Thorne himself.
And for what? There was no gala, no critical merger signing tonight. What cosmic event demanded such… preparation? The man had showered *five times* since lunch.
"Right. You can head out, Finn. That's all for tonight." Xavier's voice was distracted, his gaze critically assessing the drape of the jacket across his shoulders.
The words 'head out' were music to Finn's ears. He grabbed his briefcase with alacrity bordering on unseemly. "Perfect. See you tomorrow, Mr. Thorne." He practically fled the tension-charged atmosphere of the master suite.
Silence descended upon the sprawling Upper East Side townhouse, thick and expectant. Xavier adjusted the knot of his tie for the tenth time, studying his reflection. Clean-shaven, brows meticulously groomed, hair still damp from the latest shower, new glasses perched perfectly. Flawless. Sterile.
A faint prickle of sweat threatened at his temples. *What if she smells it?* The irrational thought spurred him towards the en-suite again, but a glance at his Patek Philippe stopped him. 8:07 PM. *She could be here any minute.* He had to be ready. *Perfectly* ready.
Carla Vance's discreet inquiry into the townhouse ownership had confirmed his 4 AM epiphany: Molly *needed* this place to sleep. The insomnia that had plagued her since childhood, a vulnerability he remembered with startling clarity, was her tether back here. She would come. Today. He'd canceled all external meetings, transforming the house into a waiting room poised for a seismic event.
The townhouse occupied the premier position on the quiet, tree-lined street. Every time headlights swept the pavement outside, visible from his dressing room window, Xavier's heart would stutter against his ribs. *Is it her?*
Now, again. Twin beams cut through the dusk, slowing as they approached the driveway gate. Xavier's breath hitched. He loosened his tie, then immediately tightened it again. Pacing the plush carpet, his long legs eating up the distance between the window and the door, he wiped his palms on his trousers, the sting of the small, precise cut from last night flaring sharply as sweat met raw skin. *Is it her? Please, let it be her…*
---
"Ding-dong!"
The chime echoed through the grand foyer. Molly Lin pressed the antique brass doorbell again, shifting her weight. Ethan Shaw stood beside her on the wide stone steps, his imposing frame a solid presence in the gathering twilight.
"You're sure it's Thorne?" Ethan murmured, his fingers unconsciously tracing the obsidian stones on his wrist.
Molly shrugged, fighting a wave of dizziness from over 24 hours without sleep. "Carla's intel. Usually bulletproof." Her voice held a tired rasp.
Ethan scanned the elegant, slightly dated facade. "This neighborhood… it's not exactly the epicenter of power anymore. Most of the serious money moved downtown or further up the park. Strange for Thorne to be holed up here." His dealings with Titan Capital's reclusive founder were minimal but respectful. Ethan was grateful for Thorne's early, crucial backing of Shaw Enterprises, but every invitation for a meeting had been politely, firmly declined via intermediaries. Thorne apparently didn't 'do' founder schmoozing. Ethan's last memory of the man was a fleeting glimpse years ago on the George Washington Bridge walkway, amidst the sea of flowers for Molly – a starkly beautiful face, utterly devoid of expression, eyes disturbingly vacant. He'd heard whispers of the legendary academic rivalry at Dalton. Maybe Thorne had respected Molly, in his own way? Perhaps that nostalgia would grease the wheels for a sale? Ethan was prepared to pay significantly over market value.
The door remained shut. Molly jabbed the bell again, impatience warring with exhaustion. Lights blazed inside; someone *had* to be home.
"Ding-dong!"
This time, footsteps approached swiftly from within. The heavy oak door swung inward, revealing a man in his late fifties, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit – the very picture of an English butler transplanted to Manhattan. "Good evening. May I inquire as to whom you are seeking?"
Molly mustered a polite smile. "Good evening. We're here to see Mr. Xavier Thorne. Is he available?"
The butler's gaze swept over them, assessing. "And whom may I say is calling?"
Molly considered for a second. "Tell him… an old classmate. It's rather urgent." *Urgently need a bed before I faceplant on his marble floor,* she thought blearily.
The butler gave a curt nod. "Very well. One moment, please." The door closed with a soft, decisive click.
Molly leaned back against the cool stone doorframe, closing her eyes for a second. "God, he's gotten pretentious," she muttered under her breath.
Ethan's eyebrow twitched. He remained silent, acutely aware that security cameras were undoubtedly recording their every move. Insulting the notoriously private and powerful Xavier Thorne on his doorstep seemed… unwise. Especially when Shaw Enterprises still relied on Titan Capital's deep pockets.
Minutes later, the door reopened. "Mr. Thorne will see you now. Please follow me." The butler's tone was impeccably neutral.
They stepped into the embrace of memory. The scent hit Molly first – not just flowers, but *specific* flowers. Roses. Her mother's beloved, fiercely tended roses. The garden, softly illuminated by path lights, was a lush, fragrant paradise, meticulously curated yet retaining a whisper of wildness. It was breathtakingly different from the chaotic orchard of her youth – trees heavy with the fruit she'd craved. She remembered the disastrous 'cherry' trees that yielded only crabapples, her furious complaints to the sellers… The central fountain still played, its gentle splash underlit, casting dancing reflections on the surrounding foliage. A profound sense of *home*, visceral and immediate, washed over Molly, momentarily eclipsing her fatigue. In her timeline, she'd slept soundly in this house just two nights ago.
They crossed the slate patio, the sound of the fountain growing louder, and entered the grand foyer. The butler announced, "Mr. Thorne, your guests."
A voice, smooth as aged whiskey and carrying an effortless, chilling authority, floated down from the sweeping staircase. "Thank you, Charles."
Molly and Ethan looked up.
Xavier Thorne descended. He was a study in monochromatic elegance: pristine white suit tailored to perfection, silver-framed glasses catching the light, lending him an ethereal, untouchable air – like a fallen angel meticulously reassembled. He moved with a predatory grace, each step measured. The small, tea-colored mole beside the bridge of his nose seemed to pulse faintly in the warm light, the only imperfection on a canvas of remote beauty.
His gaze, however, was fixed solely on Ethan. A slight, polite frown touched his brow. "An old classmate?" The question was directed at Ethan, the cool detachment in his voice absolute. There was no flicker of recognition for the woman beside him.
Ethan cleared his throat, slightly wrong-footed. "Ah, Mr. Thorne. Not me. My… sister." He gestured towards Molly. "She attended Dalton with you."
Thorne's head turned slowly, as if noticing Molly for the first time. He adjusted his glasses with a single, deliberate finger. "Sister?" His tone was one of detached curiosity, meticulously devoid of the seismic recognition crashing through him. The dim light of the predawn car had been mercifully vague. Now, under the crystal chandelier, the sight was almost unbearable. She was *exactly* as he remembered. Every contour, every shade. Time had stolen nothing.
Ethan offered a tight smile, launching into the rehearsed cover. "Yes. She just… looks remarkably young for her age." *Better than explaining temporal displacement to a venture capital titan.*
Molly felt a fresh wave of dizziness, the sleepless hours pressing down like a physical weight. *Of course he doesn't remember.* Why would he? Eleven years was an epoch. His life, from Dalton outcast to the pinnacle of global finance, was the stuff of Forbes cover stories. She'd braced for this, but the sharp pang of disappointment, mixed with exhaustion, was hard to swallow.
Summoning the last dregs of her energy, Molly stepped forward. She offered a bright, dazzling smile – the one she'd used to charm teachers and intimidate rivals. "Molly Lin," she announced, her voice clear despite the tremor of fatigue. "Dalton, class of '14. You might not recall the name, but you *must* remember Senior Finals. I was Valedictorian." Her smile widened, sharp and challenging. "You were Salutatorian."
A beat of profound silence.
Ethan: *"..."* *Jesus, Molly. Subtlety is dead.*
Xavier Thorne: *"..."*
Ethan's eyes widened fractionally. *Only Molly.* Who else would walk into Xavier Thorne's sanctum and immediately remind him of one of his rare, documented defeats? The sheer, audacious nerve of it. Would this torpedo any chance of buying the house?
A muscle twitched near Ethan's usually impassive mouth.
Xavier Thorne's expression remained eerily still for a moment longer. Then, slowly, a transformation occurred. The icy detachment in his eyes melted, replaced by a glimmer of something warm, almost… amused? It perfectly masked the near-feral intensity threatening to break through. "Ah," he breathed, the sound rich with feigned recollection. "The infamous Lin vs. Thorne academic death match. How could I possibly—"
He never finished the sentence.
Molly Lin, the vibrant, challenging girl who had just thrown down the gauntlet of their shared past, swayed violently. Her eyes rolled back, and her body went utterly limp. She crumpled forward, a falling star of exhaustion, landing squarely against Xavier Thorne's chest.