Chapter 30 Victor Thorne
Refreshed, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a thick, luxurious towel, and then put on the clean, soft clothes. The cashmere sweater felt like a gentle hug, a small comfort in a terrifying situation. She sat in the armchair by the window, gazing out at the mountains beyond, forcing herself to remain calm and analyze her situation. In reality, though Thorne did know it, she held all the cards.
She was shocked at how quickly the time passed. In what seemed like only moments, lunch was brought to her by the same silent young woman. A light salad, a gourmet sandwich, and more coffee. Clara ate every bite, her mind already working, assessing, planning.
Feeling even more fortified, she returned to the comfortable armchair near the window, her gaze sweeping over the majestic, indifferent mountains. Her thoughts, inevitably, drifted back to Ethan. His quiet strength, his fierce protectiveness of the land he called home. The way his eyes had softened when he looked at her, the way his hand had fit hers so perfectly. Their shared nights, the raw honesty and vulnerability they had found in each other's arms, forged under the vast Rocky Mountain sky. Their connection, born of shared purpose and growing affection, was what anchored her now. He was out there. And he would be looking for her. He had to be.
She closed her eyes, picturing his face, the faint lines around his eyes from years of squinting into the sun, the strong set of his jaw. He had taught her so much about survival, about listening to the land, about finding beauty in its wildness. She had grown to love it, to understand that she must continue what her aunt started. And Ethan had been her guide, her protector, her lover. The thought of him in Thorne’s clutches, suffering, was a torment she couldn’t bear.
She panicked as the thought entered her mind, but she fought back the chaotic emotion. Her best chance to survive, their best chance to survive, was for her to think her way out of the problem rather than panic. Thorne was a man of logic, albeit a twisted one fueled by greed. She needed to present herself as a formidable opponent, not a frightened victim. She needed to play his game while secretly pulling her own strings.
She replayed the moments leading up to her capture. Eleanor had been there. That meant the resistance group, Henry, Eleanor, Mark, and David, were actively involved. They would know she had been taken. Eleanor had witnessed it. They had to be working on something. They were Aunt Bea’s old acquaintances, a network of quiet protectors of the land. With overwhelming evidence against Thorne, they had decided it was time to take action. They wouldn’t abandon her. And Ethan, if he was safe, would be rallying them.
As the sun began its majestic descent, painting the western peaks in fiery hues of orange, purple, and crimson, the young woman arrived again. The soft glow of the sinking sun cast long shadows across the elegant room, making the luxurious surroundings feel even more isolated, more menacing.
“Mister Thorne would like to see you now,” she said, her voice once again a flat, emotionless drone.
Hearing the request of the young woman who had brought her breakfast, a change of clothes, and lunch, Clara took a deep breath. Her heart gave a sudden, hard thump, but it wasn’t from fear. It was a warrior’s beat. She stood, her gaze meeting the young woman’s impassive eyes, a determined glint in her own. The game was about to begin.
The young, silent woman led her down a long, dimly lit hallway, the polished wood floor reflecting the faint light from recessed fixtures. Each step echoed softly in the oppressive quiet, a symphony of Clara’s own pounding heart. They descended a wide, grand flight of stairs, the banister cool beneath Clara’s fingers, before the silent guide stopped before an imposing, dark wooden door. She pushed it open without a word, gesturing Clara inside.
The air shifted, infused with the subtle scent of aged leather and wood polish. Clara stepped into the elegant office, a world away from the rustic cabin she’d been staying in, or the secure, if Spartan, room she’d just left. The room was vast, an expanse of rich mahogany and deep forest green, dominated by large windows that faced west. Through them, the mountains rose in majestic, jagged grandeur, already in the embrace of the setting sun’s fiery rose and golden hues. It was a breathtaking view, the kind that might have, under different circumstances, filled her with a blend of awe and satisfied appreciation for the wildness she had recently come to understand.
While taking in the view, the expensive furniture, the meticulously arranged bookshelves, and the framed landscape photographs that adorned the walls, she studied the man seated behind the immense, polished desk without looking at him. Victor Thorne. The name alone was a chill down her spine, a reminder of the insidious rot spreading through the pristine wilderness she had come to treasure.
Inside, Clara was a tempest. Fear, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat. Panic threatened to overwhelm her carefully constructed composure. Her world was spreadsheets and statistical models, not clandestine operations against a powerful, ruthless man. Yet, she had chosen this path. She had chosen to continue what Aunt Bea had started, to protect this land at Ethan’s side. Every fiber of her being screamed for release, for escape, but she locked it down, burying the terror deep beneath layers of analytical detachment. She would not let him see. She would not grant him that satisfaction. She remained stoic, her expression blank, her breathing even.
Victor Thorne, meanwhile, remained quiet, his gaze a physical weight across the room. He studied her, his eyes, sharp and calculating, raking over the simple attire he’d provided for her, her composed posture. He’d expected something different. He’d anticipated tears, pleas, perhaps even hysterics. He’d expected fear, raw and palpable. Instead, she offered nothing. No sign of panic, no trembling hands, no darting eyes. She appeared, impossibly, to be in complete control of herself, her calm a stark contrast to the volatile situation. It was unsettling. He had underestimated her. This wasn't a sniveling, easily broken individual. This woman, he decided, might be reasoned with. Or, at the very least, she required a far more nuanced approach than he usually employed.
"I assume that Heidi has treated you well," he said, his voice smooth, betraying nothing of his surprise. It was a practiced calm, a predator assessing its prey.
“Her name is Heidi, then? Clara’s voice was steady, betraying none of the tremor that vibrated through her core. "Yes. She has."
Thorne leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You appear to be quite comfortable, considering the circumstances."