Prologue
The Past Never Really Lets Go
The silence in the Thornhill mansion was not one of peace. It was the kind that lingered after a storm—after slamming doors, after muffled arguments behind closed rooms, after goodbye wasn't said loud enough to be heard.
Victor Thornhill sat alone in the dim glow of his study. Dust floated like ghosts in the air, catching the last of the golden evening light. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, long emptied. The photograph on the table—framed in brushed silver—showed a woman with a kind smile and two young boys clinging to her sides.
She was gone now.
And somehow, in all the years since, so were they.
Not gone in the literal sense. His sons were very much alive. Thriving, in fact. But they weren't here. Not anymore.
Victor had built an empire from nothing but steel nerves and raw instinct. He was used to things falling into place because he willed them to. But no amount of wealth or power could bring back a woman taken too soon—or close the distance between a father and his grown sons.
And so, the mansion remained quiet. Beautiful, large, and cold. Like him, some days.
But something had to change.
And it would.
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Victor's POV
It used to be easier, didn't it?
Victor Thornhill leaned against the grand window of his estate's west wing, watching the sunrise melt over the hills like honey. His hands were steady, clasped behind his back, but his chest ached in that familiar way. The ache that came from missing what used to be—a laugh echoing through the halls, the scent of cinnamon his wife used to wear, the sound of tiny feet chasing each other in the garden.
He had built this empire with blistered hands and an iron will. And when Margaret died… he didn't let himself break. He couldn't. The boys needed him. Damien had been ten. Luca only seven.
He raised them alone. Well, as alone as a billionaire could. There were nannies, tutors, chauffeurs. But when it came to the big things—the discipline, the decisions, the expectations—it was always him. Victor made sure they were never weak. That they grew into leaders, not followers.
And they did.
But somewhere in the process, he'd lost them too.
They visited. They called. They sent extravagant gifts for holidays. But they didn't stay.
Damien, the eldest, was a mirror of himself. Ruthless. Brilliant. A tactician in business and a shadow in all else. He ran the Thornhill conglomerate now, with a precision that even Victor had to admire. But he had no softness. No patience. He ruled with facts and numbers, not people.
And Luca… Luca was another story entirely.
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Luca's POV
The camera flash was blinding, even through the tinted glass of the black SUV. Luca Thornhill tilted his head, gave the crowd a lazy smile, and lowered his sunglasses just enough for the paparazzi to catch the glint in his eye.
Showtime.
The driver opened his door, and he stepped out onto the red carpet of another charity gala he didn't remember agreeing to attend. But attendance was power. And Luca Thornhill knew how to hold attention.
He wasn't just a CEO—though technically, he still held that title over Thornhill Media. He was a face, a brand. Magazine covers, high-profile interviews, viral moments on social media. He moved through the public like silk through fingers—effortless, irresistible.
But it was all noise.
All of it.
Behind the tailored suits and easy grins, Luca knew the truth. Fame was addictive, but isolating. He couldn't remember the last time someone looked at him and didn't see opportunity. Or money. Or fame.
Family? That was even more complicated.
He hadn't visited the mansion in over six months. The guilt of it crept in sometimes, late at night. His father was growing older. And the silence in his calls… it said more than words could.
But Damien would say something if it got serious. Right?
Still, as he shook hands and posed for cameras, something tugged at him.
Maybe it was time. Maybe he should go home.
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Damien's POV
He hated delays.
Damien Thornhill stood in the top-floor conference room of the Thornhill International building, eyes fixed on the board in front of him. Twenty minutes past the hour and the last two execs had only just entered the room.
He didn't bother to hide the disgust on his face.
"Time is a currency," he said flatly, "and you've just bankrupted yourselves."
Silence. Nervous shuffling. Damien didn't need to shout to control a room—his presence alone did that. He was tall, sharp, composed, with a stare that made men twice his age fold under pressure.
He had no interest in celebrity, like Luca. No need for flashbulbs or fans. His success came from control. From intelligence. From refusing to accept anything less than perfection.
And yet, the one thing he couldn't fix—his father.
Victor was still strong, yes. But he was aging. Slower. Less present in the day-to-day operations. Damien had suggested, more than once, a live-in nurse or care manager. But the old man refused.
Now, word had reached him through the estate manager that someone new had been hired.
Without their consent. Without discussion.
He didn't like that.
He didn't trust anyone who managed to slip into their father's inner circle so quietly.
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Victor's POV
The sun had fully risen now, painting the Thornhill estate in pale gold. But Victor felt the same—older than the house he'd built, heavier than the crown he still wore.
He glanced toward the hallway, listening to the silence.
They'd come back, eventually.
They always did.
But this time, he wasn't going to wait around in loneliness.
This time, he was making a change.
And that change had already arrived.
Even if his sons didn't know it yet.