Chapter 120
Chapter 120:
Elias Thorne stepped out of the car. He wore casual clothes—a cashmere sweater and dark jeans—but he still looked like he was inspecting troops.
A voice shouted from the porch. Leo Thorne, Elias’s younger cousin and the family’s designated headache, was lounging on a wicker chair, spinning a basketball on his finger.
“What are you doing here?” Leo asked, jumping up. “You never come out on Tuesdays. Did you kill someone? Are we hiding a body p>
Elias ignored him. He signaled to the driver. “Take the boxes to my study. The private study. Not the library p>
The driver began unloading crate after crate of black boxes stamped with the department store logo.
Leo’s eyes widened. He ran down the steps. “Whoa. What is that? Did you buy a bomb p>
He tried to peek into one of the crates.
Elias stepped in front of him, blocking his view with his broad shoulders. “Office supplies p>
Leo laughed. “Office supplies? From the cosmetic department? I see the logo, Eli. That’s makeup p>
Elias stiffened. “It is… market analysis. For a potential acquisition of a beauty conglomerate p>
“Since when do we care about beauty conglomerates?” Leo pressed, trying to dodge around Elias. “Let me see. Is it lipstick? Eyeshadow? Are you starting a drag career? Because I would support that fully p>
“Leo,” Elias warned, his voice low. “Go inside p>
“Mom is going to freak out,” Leo sang, dancing backward. “Eli has a secret! Eli has a secre-et p>
Elias shot him a look that would have withered a plant. He turned and followed the boxes into the house, marching straight to his study.
for more reading
He locked the door.
The room was dark, smelling of mahogany and old paper. Elias turned on the desk lamp.
He opened the first box. Hundreds of lipsticks spilled out onto his pristine desk. It looked like a rainbow had exploded.
He sat down. He picked up a tube. Ruby Woo.
He placed it on the desk.
He picked up another. Velvet Teddy.
He spent the next hour arranging them. By gradient. By finish. By brand.
He felt ridiculous. He felt exhilarated.
He pulled out a small card from his drawer. He picked up his fountain pen.
For Aurora.
He stared at the ink. Too direct.
For the woman who beat me.
Too competitive.
Happy Birthday.
He had already sent the official gift earlier that day—a rare, 16th-century manuscript on medicinal herbs that he knew she coveted. That was the gift for the public, for the intellectual. This… this was for the woman.