Just A Substitute: The Don's Lost Love

I returned to the manor after four years, handing Marcus Thorne an invitation to my wedding.

He looked at me with cold eyes, his arm around his fiancée, Chloe—the woman I was molded to look like.

But the real blow came at lunch.

A waiter tripped, sending three mugs of scalding coffee flying toward us.

Marcus didn't move to protect me.

He lunged to grab his phone from the table because Chloe’s face was on the screen.

The boiling liquid splashed across my chest, burning my skin instantly.

While I screamed in agony, Marcus simply checked his notifications.

"I have to go," he said, stepping over me as my fiancé, David, desperately poured ice water on my burns. "Chloe broke a nail. She's hysterical."

He walked out of the restaurant without looking back, leaving me writhing in pain.

At the hospital, the doctor dropped another bombshell: I was pregnant.

Marcus didn't know.

He didn't know I was carrying another man's child.

Just like he didn't know about the baby of his I had lost three years ago—the one I miscarried while he ignored my calls to close a business deal.

I wiped my tears and looked at David.

"Get the plane ready," I whispered. "We leave tonight."

When Marcus finally came looking for me, all he found was a medical report of the child he killed with his neglect, and a note saying I was gone forever.

Chapter 1

Ellie POV

I stood before the iron gates of Thorne Manor, the place that had been my sanctuary for ten years and my prison for the last four, clutching the invitation to my own wedding like a shield.

My palms were sweating against the thick, cream cardstock.

This wasn't a homecoming. It was a funeral for the girl I used to be.

The gravel crunched under my heels as I walked up the long driveway. The manor loomed ahead, a beast of stone and glass that had swallowed my childhood whole. It looked exactly the same as the day I left. The ivy still clawed at the brickwork. The fountain still wept into its basin.

But the warmth was gone.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors. The foyer smelled of lemon polish and the expensive, metallic scent of old money—and old blood.

"Ellie."

The voice came from the top of the stairs. It was low, rough, and vibrated through the floorboards straight into my bones.

I looked up.

Don Marcus Thorne stood on the landing. He was wearing a black suit that cost more than my first car, tailored to fit shoulders that carried the weight of the city’s underworld. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing eyes that were cold, hard chips of ice.

He didn't smile. He didn't rush down to hug me.

He looked at me like I was a stranger who had trespassed on his property.

"You're back," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, devoid of any emotion.

Four years. I had been gone for four years in Florence, and this was what I got.

"Hello, Marcus," I said, my voice steady. I had practiced this. I wouldn't let him see my hands shaking. "I'm only here for a few days. I came to visit my parents' graves."

He descended the stairs slowly, each step a calculated power move. He stopped two steps above me, forcing me to crane my neck. The power dynamic was instantly re-established. He was the Don. I was the orphan charity case.

"And?" he asked, his gaze flicking over my simple dress with disdain.

I took a breath and held out the cream-colored envelope. "And to invite you to my wedding."

Marcus stared at the envelope. He didn't take it. A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes—annoyance? Betrayal?—before it vanished behind his mask of indifference.

"A wedding," he scoffed. The sound was sharp, like a whip crack. "Is that what this is? Another one of your stunts to get attention? Who is it this time, Ellie? Some starving artist who needs my funding?"

My chest tightened. "His name is David. And he doesn't need your money. We are getting married in Florence next month."

"You are twenty-four, Ellie. You are playing house." He brushed past me, ignoring the invitation still suspended in the air. "Leave the paper on the table. I have real business to attend to."

I lowered my hand, the paper crinkling under my grip. The rejection stung, familiar and sharp.

"Marcus, darling!"

The voice was high, sweet, and grated on my nerves like sandpaper.

Chloe Davenport clicked into the foyer. She was everything I wasn't. Tall, blonde, radiant. She wore silk that clung to her curves and diamonds that caught the light. She walked with the confidence of a woman who owned the place.

She walked straight to Marcus and looped her arm through his. He didn't pull away. He leaned into her.

The sight of them together was a physical blow. The rumors were true. The "Prince" had found his queen, and it wasn't the girl he raised.

"Ellie!" Chloe beamed, her smile not reaching her eyes. "We heard you were coming. Look at you... so rustic."

She detached herself from Marcus and glided over to me. "I was just having tea in the parlor. You must join us. For old times' sake."

She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging in, and pulled me toward the sitting room.

Marcus followed, his presence looming behind us like a storm cloud.

Chloe poured tea from a silver pot. Her movements were graceful, practiced. She handed me a cup.

"So," she said, her eyes glinting. "Marcus tells me you're engaged. How quaint."

"It's not quaint," I said, taking the saucer. "It's love."

Chloe laughed. It was a tinkling, cruel sound. "Love. You're so naive, Ellie. In our world, love is a liability. Isn't that right, Marcus?"

Marcus didn't answer. He was watching me, his gaze heavy.

Chloe stood up, ostensibly to get sugar. As she passed me, her hip checked my elbow.

It happened in slow motion.

The hot tea sloshed over the rim of my cup. But Chloe—she threw herself sideways with a dramatic gasp. She knocked her own hand against the silver pot to ensure the damage was real.

"Ah!" she screamed, clutching her wrist.

"Chloe!" Marcus was there in an instant. He grabbed her hand, inspecting the red mark forming on her pale skin.

"She burned me!" Chloe sobbed, burying her face in Marcus's chest. "I was just trying to be nice, and she threw the tea at me!"

It was a lie so blatant it stole the air from my lungs. I sat there, tea dripping onto my dress, burning my own thighs.

"I didn't—" I started.

"Enough," Marcus snarled.

He turned to me. His eyes were murderous. The indifference was gone, replaced by a terrifying rage.

"Apologize," he commanded.

"Marcus, she hit my arm. I didn't do anything."

"I saw you," he lied. Or maybe he was so blind he believed it. "You come into my house, disrespect my fiancée, and hurt her? Apologize. Now."

He loomed over me. The threat of violence hung heavy in the air. Not that he would hit me—Marcus didn't hit women. He destroyed them with words and power.

I looked at Chloe. She was smirking behind her hand, her eyes triumphant.

I looked at Marcus. The man who had once promised my dying father he would protect me.

He wasn't protecting me. He was the danger.

My heart turned to stone in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words tasted like ash. "I'm sorry I burned your fiancée, Don Thorne."

"Get out of my sight," Marcus spat. He turned back to Chloe, cooing at her like she was a wounded bird. "Let's get some ice on that, love."

I stood up, my legs trembling. The tea burn on my leg throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the cold spreading through my veins.

He didn't even ask if I was hurt.

I walked out of the parlor, leaving the happy couple to their twisted performance. I climbed the stairs to the guest wing.

I wasn't a daughter here. I wasn't a friend. I was an enemy.

And tomorrow, I would burn this bridge to the ground.