When Julian Thorne was photographed rear-ending a Bentley with a model in his passenger seat, he simply leaned out the window and smiled for the cameras. "A real scandal," he told the paparazzi, his voice dripping with amusement. "Make sure you send the invoice to my wife. She loves handling my press." When you mention me, Ava Thorne, the circles in New York whisper the same thing. "The scholarship kid from NYU? She’d never leave him. She’s clinging to that 'Mrs. Thorne' title for dear life." No one remembers our wedding, when Julian, in a rare moment of sincerity, told them, "This is Ava, my wife. She’s new to this. Be good to her." Everyone assumed I would do what I always do: write a check to Page Six, bury the story, and continue playing the part of the perfect, supportive wife. This time, however, I just walked into the study of the Thorne family patriarch. "Arthur," I said, "it’s been three years. You have to let me go." 1 There’s an unspoken rule among the New York City press: if you’re short on your quota, go stake out Julian Thorne. He changes mistresses like he changes his watches, and he isn't subtle. It’s an easy shot. A man having affairs is just a Tuesday. But his wife has to maintain the family’s image. If you get a picture of him, you don't go to him. You go to her. She’ll meet any price. This time, a rookie from TMZ, emboldened by his "exclusive," tracked down Julian, who simply directed him to me. I had just gotten home to the penthouse, the one overlooking all of Central Park, when my phone rang. The kid’s voice was a practiced, sleazy drawl. "Mrs. Thorne, two hundred grand. That’s a rounding error for you. Two hundred grand, and this video of your husband getting... friendly... with the talent? It disappears. It’s a bargain." The video he’d sent was pathetic. Julian, windows down, with some aspiring model in the passenger seat. Last month, the photos I’d paid for featured a B-list actress from LA. Julian, looking bored, had waved the rookie over. "New?" Julian’s voice was lazy. "You’re supposed to take this to my wife. I don’t pay for anything." "Don't have her contact?" He’d scribbled my private number on a napkin. Then, he’d turned to the model. "Get out." "Julian," she’d pouted. "You said we had all night..." He’d tossed her a black card. "You got photographed in four blocks. That's a new record. You're done." I clicked off the video. The housekeeper was setting the table for one. The grandfather clock in the hall—a gift from Julian, seven years ago, from Paris—chimed eight. 2 I looked at the clock. It felt old. Tired. I was 18 when I got the scholarship to NYU. He was 25, already a legend on Wall Street. He’d pretended to be just another guy, "forgetting" his wallet, asking me to "tutor" him in subjects he’d already mastered. It took less than a month for someone to pull me aside. "You know that's Julian Thorne, right? As in, Thorne Holdings? His father is running for Senate." He pursued me relentlessly, driving between his office in Midtown and my dorm. We fought, we made up. My defenses crumbled. At 25, after a thousand battles, I married him. The "wedding of the decade." One tabloid, trying to make a name for itself, ran the headline: "Scholarship Kid Cashes In: Thorne Heir Weds a Nobody." Julian saw it the next morning. By noon, he had bought the parent company of that tabloid and shut the paper down. It’s strange to remember, but yes, we were that in love. How did we become this clock, just listlessly swinging? The private elevator dinged. Julian stepped out, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. I looked away, focusing on my food. I heard the jacket hit the sofa. A moment later, I was surrounded by his scent—sandalwood and something cold. He leaned over me, his hands on the table, trapping me in his space. "Good evening, Mrs. Thorne," he murmured. "Let's see. What's the damage this time?" He picked up my phone. "$200k? Pathetic. They're undervaluing me." I put down my fork, my back straight, keeping that six-inch space between us. I didn't take the bait. "I’m rejecting Sienna Miller's application for the marketing director position. Her resume is being pulled." The name hit the air. The energy shifted. He stood up straight. He sat down across from me, the table a chasm. "Her business is none of your concern." "Unless," he said, a slow smile spreading, "you just don't like her?" I looked at him, searching for the man I married. He was gone. The tabloids thought he was a revolving door of women. They didn't know he was just protecting Sienna. Two years ago, he sent her to Europe "for school"—a pathetic attempt to launder her resume so she could "earn" a spot at his company. "I’m not qualified for that role," I said, my voice flat. "Thorne Holdings requires a degree from an Ivy League. Sienna’s 'degree' is from a diploma mill in Switzerland. Even 'unconventional hiring' has limits." "This is business, Julian," I said. "I'm not mixing it with my personal feelings." He didn't reply. A second later, a text-to-speech voice read a message from his phone, loud enough for me to hear. J, I left my panties in your Ferrari. When can I come get them? It was the model from the video. He looked right at me, picked up his phone, and spoke. "Wrong number, sweetheart." I looked at his cold, beautiful face, and I tried to remember. 3 He used to apologize. The first time, with Sienna. He’d bought her a gift, a diamond bracelet, and it accidentally took the last spot on a waitlist I’d been on for a year. The rumor mill exploded. He’d raced home. He’d dumped his keys, his wallet, his phone on the table. "It was a thank-you gift. My assistant picked it out. I’ll fire him." I believed him. But then, Sienna showed up. In the rain. Kneeling on the steps of our penthouse. "Mrs. Thorne, please, it's not what you think! We're just friends!" The over-the-top denial. It was all for show. I didn't see it then, but I saw the look in Julian’s eyes as he watched her on the security feed. Pity. When a man pities a beautiful woman, it’s dangerous. I checked my watch. November 27th. The three-year agreement was up. I looked at Julian. "I..." His phone rang. I could hear Sienna’s voice, small and frightened. "Julian? The power's out in my building... I'm scared." "I'm on my way," he said, standing up. He glanced at me. I said nothing. He left. I drove to the Thorne family estate in the Hamptons. Julian's mother, Eleanor, was on the veranda. She saw me, nodded once, and closed her eyes. I went straight to the study. "Arthur." The patriarch looked up from his desk. "The three years are up. I want to leave." When I’d found out about Sienna's "study abroad," when I’d realized Julian was flying to Zurich between my chemotherapy appointments, my heart had finally died. I went to Arthur. The family was in crisis. He’d needed me—the competent, stable wife—to steady the company. He’d asked for three years. If Julian was still a fool, Arthur would sign off on my exit. He sighed. "I thought you'd have settled in by now. Why leave? Look at Eleanor. She was a firebrand, too. But she held on. And now? She’s the matriarch. Julian is the sole heir. I made sure of it." "She survived because I backed her. I'm backing you, Ava. No one can touch you." "I’m not talking about love. I'm talking about a transaction. You've done brilliant work. We can’t afford to lose you." "Arthur," I said, pouring him a tea. "If it wasn't about love, I never would have been here at all." I wanted to be Mrs. Thorne. But I wanted it because I was marrying Julian. Not the other way around. When I first told him I wouldn't marry him, that I wouldn't be a trophy, he’d laughed. "You think I can't? Watch me." He’d cleaned up his act. He’d taken over the company. By the time he proposed again, he was the company. No one dared say no. "He's a fool," Arthur said. "But he's my fool." "I've made my decision, Arthur. I've waited three years." He waved a hand. "Fine. Settle your affairs. My lawyers will be in touch." As I left, Eleanor was still on the veranda. "I won't be here for your birthday this year," I said. "Please, take care of yourself." She watched me walk to my car. As I drove away, I saw her, a figure in the twilight, looking like a younger version of herself, finally free. 4 I still had one affair to settle. I called the TMZ rookie and told him to pick up his check. A few days later, Julian called. He'd been laying low. I remembered my promise to Arthur. I picked him up from a "poker game." Sienna was there. She’d just won a hand. "Wow, Mrs. Thorne," one of the guys slurred, "you're on fire tonight." Sienna just smiled. Julian looked up and saw me. He stubbed out his cigarette. "The real Mrs. Thorne is at the door. Get your eyes checked." The man scrambled to his feet. "Ava... Mrs. Thorne... I didn"t..." Sienna’s face went white. Julian was just showing off. He loved this game. He loved proving that no matter how many women he had, I was the only one with the title. I didn't enter. I just told my driver to wait for him. As I turned to leave, Sienna ran out. "Mrs. Thorne, wait. I... I'm sorry. I tried to leave him. I did. But I... I love him. I know I'm not supposed to, but... we just met too late." She was 20. She looked like a child. "This isn't my fault," she whispered. "I'm not the one who broke your marriage." I just looked at her. Draped in labels Julian had paid for. The same sparrow, just in a different gilded cage. I didn't waste my breath. You can't appeal to the morality of someone who has none. "You should divorce him!" she called after me. "Let him go!" Inside, Julian just lit another cigarette.
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