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.