The Thorne Enterprises penthouse offered no sanctuary. Ethan stood in his pristine, minimalist living room, the glittering skyline a mocking backdrop to his simmering fury. He'd showered twice, scrubbing his skin raw, yet the phantom feel of sticky paint and the echo of that waiter's defiant shout – *Don't you dare yell at her!* – lingered. A glass of expensive Scotch sat untouched on the glass coffee table.
He replayed the scene obsessively. The collision. The splash of garish color. The child's terrified face. Then *him*. Alex Moretti. Stepping forward, not cowering, not apologizing, but *challenging* him. Eyes blazing, voice shaking but loud. Protecting the girl. His sister, presumably. The raw, unfiltered emotion in that moment… it had been shocking. Alien. Utterly unlike the carefully modulated responses of his world.
A flicker of something unsettling stirred beneath the anger. Not admiration – never that – but… a jarring recognition of something potent. Something real. It was infuriating.
His phone buzzed, shattering the silence. Silas Thorne. Ethan's jaw clenched. He considered letting it go to voicemail, but defiance towards his father was a luxury he rarely indulged in. He swiped to answer.
"Ethan." Silas Thorne's voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. "The Singapore figures. They're adequate. Barely." No greeting. No acknowledgment of the PR fiasco Amelia had surely briefed him on. Only the relentless pressure of business. "The Henderson group is wavering. Apply pressure. Remind them who holds the leverage."
"Understood," Ethan replied, his voice perfectly controlled, betraying none of the turmoil inside. "I'll contact Henderson directly in the morning."
"See that you do." A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Amelia mentioned a… disruption… at that charity event. Paint?" The faintest hint of distaste colored the word. "Unfortunate. Ensure it doesn't reflect on the Harbor Lights vote. Crass sentimentality over a few spilled art supplies shouldn't interfere with progress."
"It won't," Ethan stated flatly. "The donation is suspended. The narrative is contained. Harbor Lights proceeds."
"Good." Silas's approval was a cold, minimal thing. "Sentiment is a weakness, Ethan. A distraction. Crush it where it interferes. That center was a sinkhole anyway. Wasted capital." The line went dead.
Ethan lowered the phone slowly. *Crush it.* His father's philosophy, distilled. The center *was* inefficient. A drain. Suspending the donation *was* the rational, unsentimental choice. So why did his father's dismissal, echoing his own earlier thoughts, suddenly feel… hollow? Why did the image of that terrified little girl clutching her ruined nebula painting intrude?
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the city lights. Below, somewhere in the sprawling, dimly lit grid of the East End, that girl lived. In a crumbling apartment, probably. Her brother worked construction hauling debris. They struggled. They cared about a leaky community center roof. They felt things… deeply, messily. Illogical. Inefficient.
*You stood up to him. For Sofia.* Marco's words, imagined in Alex's voice, echoed unexpectedly. *That took guts.*
Guts? Or stupidity? Defying Ethan Thorne was career suicide, social suicide. Yet Alex Moretti had done it. Twice. Not for personal gain, but for… what? Family? Pride? Some incomprehensible sense of justice? The raw ferocity in his eyes when protecting his sister… Ethan had never seen anything like it. Not directed at *him*. It hadn't been calculated. It hadn't been weak. It had been… fierce.
He glanced down at his discarded suit jacket, lying in a heap near the door where the staff would collect it for disposal. A smear of glittery purple paint, almost invisible against the dark charcoal, caught the light. He hadn't noticed it before. He walked over and picked up the jacket, examining the tiny, defiant sparkle embedded in the expensive wool. Abomination, he'd called the painting. Yet, looking at this tiny speck of glitter… it was just color. Just… matter. Created by a child.
He dropped the jacket back onto the floor with a grunt of disgust, turning away. Sentiment *was* weakness. His father was right. Alex Moretti was insignificant. A nuisance. A symbol of chaotic, emotional inefficiency. The center was a lost cause. Suspending the donation was the correct, rational decision.
He picked up the glass of Scotch, finally taking a long, burning swallow. He needed to focus on Henderson. On Singapore. On the cold, hard calculus of power and profit. That was his world. That was safety.
But as he stood there, silhouetted against the glittering skyline, the untouched city stretching below him felt suddenly vast and strangely empty. The memory of chaotic, defiant eyes and a tiny sparkle of purple glitter on a ruined suit lingered, an unwelcome crack in the pristine, icy facade of his controlled existence. Efficiency felt cold. Control felt… isolating. And the irrational, messy emotion he'd witnessed in that grimy corridor… it had burned with a disturbing, unexpected heat.
**(End of Chapter 10)**