The gates of Arkvale Private Institution groaned as they opened after a full decade. For ten long years, silence, screams, and shadows were all that existed beyond them alongside the man everyone had forgotten or feared.
He stepped out.
Wearing a simple white shirt, faded jeans, spotless white sneakers, and dark shades that covered the haunted storm in his eyes. He looked… calm. Too calm. As if silence had become his language. A glint of mischief or madness danced behind his subtle smirk. The kind of smile that made even the bravest men uneasy.
His godlike features were impossible to ignore. A chiseled jaw shadowed with a day's stubble, smooth tan skin kissed by years of sunlight through window bars, thick black hair tousled with natural perfection, and a build lean yet powerful like a panther released after years in a cage. He stood tall, shoulders relaxed but commanding. His mere presence screamed wealth, pain… and quiet danger.
Dr. Halden, the man who had treated him for ten years, stood at the gate, hands folded, trying to mask the chill running down his spine.
"You've come far Mr Thorne." the doctor said looking at the young man in front of him.
The man turned slowly, lowering his shades just enough to let the doctor see a flash of cold, intelligent eyes. His voice was low, smooth, and sharp like a blade in silk.
"Thank you Mr Halden"
Dr. Halden forced a tight nod. "Of course. Be well, Mr. Thorne."
The man smiled too slowly. Then turned and walked toward the black luxury car waiting by the curb.
The chauffeur straightened the moment he approached. "Welcome home, sir."
He slid into the backseat, leaning against the leather with the ease of a man returning to his throne. The car pulled away, and behind the tinted window he sat down calm but a storm was just beginning...
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The fire crackled low in the ornate fireplace, casting long shadows across the grand marble floor. Isadora Thorne, elegant even in grief, sat on the edge of the velvet chair, her fingers curled tightly around a crystal glass of untouched wine.
Her husband, Dorian Thorne, stood near the window, stiff and cold as ever, staring out at the rain that tapped steadily against the glass.
"He's not ready," Dorian muttered.
"He's our son," Isadora replied, voice sharp but weary. "We sent him away when he needed us most."
"We sent him away because he was out of control," Dorian snapped, turning to face her. "You didn't see the walls. The names. The blood. He was hallucinating violent threatening our reputation, our empire, our family."
Isadora stood slowly. "And what if he was right by doing so? Tessa was the only person who understood him"
Dorian narrowed his eyes. "Isa you don't understand"
"No," she said quietly, " Dorian we are bad parents he lost his wife on his wedding day. I would have done the same if i was in his shoes and so will you. We abandoned him in a place meant to 'fix' him. But it only broke him further."
"The doctor says he's stable," Dorian said after a long silence, voice quieter now. "But you and I both know… he's changed. He's not the same boy we know Isa."
Isadora's voice trembled. "He has no one left, Dorian. And soon, no parents if we keep pretending like he's not ours to carry. Dorian its either you bring him back or we have a divorce "
Dorian looked at her long and hard, then finally exhaled.
"I'll bring him home," he said at last. "But you better pray we haven't just unleashed something we can't control."
Isadora turned away, her eyes glistening. "I already did."
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Golden sunlight poured through the large glass windows of the quaint flower shop nestled at the centre of town. The scent of roses, jasmine, and fresh greenery filled the air like a soft perfume.
At the center of it all stood a young woman graceful, delicate, beautiful, yet full of quiet strength.
She wore a simple white dress smudged lightly with soil, her hands moving swiftly as she packed bunches of daisies and peonies into wrapped paper. Her skin was soft and caramel toned, glowing against the light. Long chestnut-brown hair spilled down her back in soft waves, tied loosely at the nape. Her eyes, large and almond shaped, were a deep hazel green calm and kind, but tinged with sadness.
Her name was Elena.
She paused for a breath, wiping her brow with the back of her hand as a bead of sweat trailed down her temple. Her chest rose and fell gently, worn from the long day but refusing to stop.
The chime above the door jingled lightly, and a gentle voice followed.
"Elena, sweetheart," said her mother, Marisol, stepping out from the back. Her apron was dusty, her eyes red rimmed from holding back tears.
"You've done enough today," she added, voice soft. "You're stronger than I ever was. Your father would be proud."
Elena forced a smile and stood tall. "We need every sale we can get, Mama. Dad's next hospital round is in two weeks. I'll rest later."
Marisol's face crumbled, her lips trembling. She walked over, hands shaking as she touched Elena's arm. "It should be me carrying this weight, not you… "
Elena dropped the bouquet and pulled her mother into a hug, holding her tightly as she cried quietly into her shoulder.
"I'm okay, Mom" Elena whispered, stroking her back. "We're going to be okay. We will get through this together."
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The long black car glided to a halt before the grand Thorne estate. The mansion stood like a fortress of wealth and legacy tall stone columns, wide marble steps, and golden light spilling through high windows.
A row of uniformed servants and house staff stood in silence. At the front, Isadora Thorne, regal in a yellow dress and pearls, clutched her hands together, eyes fixed on the car with equal parts of hope and fear. Dorian Thorne stood tall and elegant behind, arms crossed, jaw set waiting for his arrival.
The chauffeur opened the door.
He stepped out. Lucien Thorne. Heir to a vast fortune. A man broken and possibly rebuilt wrong.
He emerged with a charming grin, wearing his simple white shirt and faded jeans, dark shades shielding his eyes from the amber glow of the setting sun. He looked effortlessly young, sculpted like a living marble statue broad shoulders, smooth skin, and a presence that made the air seem thinner.
But beneath that beauty… something twisted coiled in the silence around him.
He walked straight toward his mother, arms wide.
"Mama," he said, voice warm and playful, "you haven't aged a single day. What are they feeding you here?"
Isadora laughed through her tears and embraced him tightly. "My sweet boy… welcome home."
He kissed her cheek gently, then glanced at the stunned staff. "She's still the most beautiful woman alive. Pamper her more, yes?"
Isadora beamed and turned to the maids. "Take care of him. Prepare the master suite. A hot bath. Fresh sheets. His favorite tea."
The maids scrambled with soft bows and murmurs of "Yes, ma'am."
But Dorian stood still, watching. Lucien turned slowly toward his father. Their eyes locked.
For a second, nothing moved. The breeze stopped. The house seemed to hold its breath.
And in Lucien's smile still playful, still boyish but Dorian saw it.
A glint of mischief. A darkness coiled behind the charm. The usual Lucien but more dangerous....
Lucien tilted his head ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Father," he said. "Did you miss me"
Dorian didn't answer. But in his silence… he replied ''Well I can't really say''