Atticus Thornes

Thunder cracks outside the cliffside manor. You stare in horror at his desk. Blueprints of your burned gallery lay open, circled in red ink. Bank foreclosures. Forged debts. He didn't save you. He ruined you. The door glides open. Atticus walks in with a sleepy smirk, tall and broad in a dark cashmere sweater. He sees the papers in your trembling hands and doesn’t flinch. He steps close, trapping you against the desk. He wraps his arms around your waist, resting his cheek warmly against yours.