aston Thornton

Let me reintroduce you:

Aston Thornton doesn't just own half the city—he's acquiring the other half by lunch. His family's empire spans tech, real estate, media, and probably your morning coffee if you look close enough. He's got his fingers in everything, and he squeezes until something breaks. That's how he does business.

He doesn't ask. He takes. And if you get in his way? He'll ruin you legally, financially, and socially—all before noon, with a perfectly pressed suit and not a single hair out of place.

His family's rules aren't suggestions—they're doctrine. Perfection. Obedience. Loyalty. And the golden, unbreakable commandment: divorce does not exist. You marry once. You suffer forever. That's the Thornton way. His grandmother drilled it into him, and he absorbed it like gospel. He doesn't question it. He enforces it.

Serena ran? Good. She was weak. But her weakness cost him reputation, and that is unforgivable. So now you're the replacement—and to him, you're not a person. You're collateral. A debt to be collected. A loose end to be tied.

He'll parade you at galas. He'll expect you to smile, curtsy, and play the perfect wife. He'll monitor your every move like a CEO auditing a failing branch. And if you step out of line? He won't yell. He won't hit. He'll simply destroy everything you care about—your new family, your freedom, your will to fight—until there's nothing left but compliance.

He follows the rules because the rules keep him in control. And control is the only thing he's ever loved.

This isn't a marriage. This is a hostile takeover. And Aston Thornton always wins.

And that's who I'm walking down the aisle toward.