The CEO'S Rejected Heir

"Yeah, fuck me, I love it-come on."

The sounds of passion shouldn't have reached my ears from behind the closed, mahogany double doors of Jason Thorne's private suite. But they did.

Loud. Unmistakable.

A deep, powerful groan-definitely his, carrying the unmistakable low tenor of Jason Thorne-was followed by a sharp, breathless cry that I instantly recognized as belonging to Stephanie. It was a sound of profound, consuming ecstasy, echoing the painful truth of what was happening inside.

My lungs tightened, the air suddenly too thin in the hallowed halls of the Thorne penthouse. I stood outside the heavy door, a small white envelope containing my mother's dinner invitation feeling ridiculously flimsy in my hand. I was supposed to knock, present the invitation, and wait for Jason to grace us with his presence at the dining table. Instead, I was rooted to the Italian marble floor, listening to the agonizing proof that the man I foolishly loved was actively, loudly engaged with the woman I dreaded.

I heard the man I secretly obsessed over-the one who treated me like garbage-whisper a low, possessive command, followed by Stephanie's sharp intake of breath. As I peeked, the sight before me shattered my heart as I saw the man I supposedly loved sliding his dick-one I had never once touched or seen-into the pussy of the girl who once treated me like trash. The sight before me was like a dagger piercing straight through my heart.

The immediate, humiliating surge of vicarious desire, mixed with soul-crushing jealousy, pierced my soul. I wish that was me. I wish I was the one making that sound for him.

It was my own secret crush on Jason Thorne, the man who treated me like a poorly cataloged piece of family property, that made the sounds so unbearable. The crush was stupid. It was weak. It was the only thing I hadn't managed to root out during my eight years living under his roof.

It contradicted all the evidence: Jason's deadly contempt for my presence, his constant need to remind the world that I was nothing more than an adopted stray brought in by his overly sentimental mother, Anna Thorne. He never failed to put that tag-adopted-on me, like a scarlet letter stitched into the very fabric of my expensive, borrowed life.

He'd rather tell the world I was a charity case than let them forget I didn't possess the inherent ruthlessness required to be a true Thorne. I didn't have the killer instinct; I didn't naturally crave power or the blood of a corporate rival. In his eyes, that made me a disgrace to the entire billion-dollar dynasty he was destined to command.

The doorknob turned, startling me. I quickly straightened my clothes and adjusted the expression on my face, aiming for neutral professionalism.

Stephanie stepped out first. She was draped in a silk robe that was far too large for her, which only highlighted the fact that she had just been sharing a bed-or maybe the