Chapter 2: The Name That Makes Men Whisper
1073 Words
In the halls of power, where old money shook hands with new ambition, the name Darius Thorne had its own gravitational pull. He was the kind of man people spoke about in lowered voices, with curiosity tangled in fear.
Some said he built his fortune out of nothing—just a sharp mind, colder heart, and an iron will. Others claimed he came from something darker, something older. A legacy forged in secrets and sharpened by betrayal. But no matter where the truth lay, everyone agreed on one thing: you didn’t cross Darius Thorne unless you had a death wish.
The first time Aria heard his name mentioned, she was passing through the corridor outside her father’s study. Her father, Mcwell Lancaster, never lowered his voice unless it was business—he shouted, ordered, commanded. But that morning, he was speaking in a rare hush.
"The Thorne proposal is serious," Mcwell was saying.
Helena’s heels clicked on the marble floor inside. "He doesn’t need us. So why our daughter?"
Aria froze in place.
Daughter?
Her?
She edged closer, careful not to let her shoes echo.
"It’s not about needing us," Mcwell replied, his voice tense. "It’s about something else. No one really knows what Darius Thorne wants. That’s the problem."
Helena scoffed. "That’s what makes him dangerous."
"That’s what makes him effective."
There was silence, then a chair scraped. Aria pulled back and disappeared into the nearest hallway before she was spotted.
The name stuck with her. Darius Thorne.
That afternoon, in the safety of her favorite dusty armchair in the library, Aria opened her laptop and searched the name.
The screen lit up with headlines:
DARCO CEO SHATTERS RECORD WITH GLOBAL MERGER
DARIUS THORNE: THE MAN WHO TURNED WALL STREET ON ITS HEAD
WHO IS THE RECLUSIVE BILLIONAIRE BEHIND THE DARKEST TAKEOVER IN CORPORATE HISTORY?
His photo was the first thing that caught her eye. He was tall, dark-haired, and striking—not in the classic pretty-boy way her mother loved to flaunt, but something more intense. Like he had been carved from shadow and taught how to dress. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—burned through the screen. Piercing, cold, calculating.
There were only a few photos of him in public. He didn’t attend galas. Didn’t give interviews. He never smiled.
And yet, he was everywhere. Every acquisition. Every shift in the market. Every time someone powerful fell, his name hovered somewhere in the background like smoke after fire.
People called him the Phantom King.
He was only thirty-four.
As she read deeper, Aria found herself fascinated. The world saw her as invisible. Powerless. An afterthought. But this man? He made empires rise and fall, and he did it with a single phone call.
And he had asked for her.
---
Far away, in the Thorne Tower that scraped the Manhattan sky, Darius stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, watching the storm roll in. Rain slid down the glass in slow, deliberate trails.
Vincent, his assistant, placed a thin folder on his desk.
"Her family responded."
Darius turned without a word and picked up the folder. Inside was a single sheet with formal agreement details—and a brief note from Mcwell Lancaster:
Willing to proceed. Timeline flexible. The girl is yours.
Darius’s jaw tightened.
He hated how they spoke of her—as a transaction, an object, a girl. She had a name.
Aria.
He had first noticed her when she was seventeen, at a fundraising gala where the Lancasters paraded their sons like prizes. She had stood quietly near a wall, holding a tray of drinks. He had known instantly that she wasn’t a server, not by birth. But she was treated like one.
He had watched as her mother whispered cruel things behind a smile, and how Aria had nodded like it didn’t hurt. He saw how her brothers laughed, mocking her shoes, her dress. And yet, she didn’t break.
She had endured.
Darius never forgot that kind of resilience. He recognized it. He lived it.
In his world, softness died young. But hers had survived. Somehow.
He had kept an eye on her ever since. Quietly. From a distance.
Not out of pity. Never pity.
It was fascination.
Now, she would be his wife.
Not a trophy. Not a pawn. Not even a partner.
Something else.
Something more.
He would protect her, yes. But more than that, he would own her in a way no one else could. Because he would see her—every broken, beautiful part—and he would love her in the only way he knew how.
Possessively.
Completely.
Darius returned the file to his desk.
"Set the meeting," he said.
Vincent hesitated. "You’re sure? You haven’t even spoken to her."
Darius looked out the window again.
"She’s already mine. The world just doesn’t know it yet."
Vincent smirked slightly, arms crossed. "I never thought I’d see the day. Darius Thorne, tamer of markets and now… husband-to-be. Should I start looking for white doves and floral arrangements?"
Darius raised a brow, one corner of his mouth twitching in a hint of a smile. "Keep it up, Vincent, and you’ll be planning weddings from the unemployment line."
"Noted, sir. But just saying—if this girl manages to get under your skin, she might be more dangerous than your rivals."
Darius’s gaze returned to the skyline, thoughtful. "Maybe that’s why I want her."
---
Back at the Lancaster mansion, Aria paced the perimeter of the garden. The hedges were trimmed with brutal precision—like everything else in this house, beauty only existed if it could be controlled.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Who proposes marriage to someone he’s never met? Not just proposes—offers a deal. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t gentle.
But it was a door.
Out of this place. Out of this life.
And she was curious—so very curious—about what it would be like to stand next to someone who actually saw her.
She looked up at the sky, the clouds shifting overhead like secrets.
Somewhere out there, Darius Thorne was waiting.
She just didn’t know if she should run toward him… or away.
But something inside her whispered that it was already too late.
She wasn’t a girl standing at the edge of a choice.
She was already falling.
And Darius Thorne was waiting at the bottom.
- Writer
