9 The Tycoon’s Forgotten Wife
Elara Vance stood firm as Ethan Stone’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“But Mrs. Thorne, Mr. Thorne specifically said-”
“I heard what you said,” Elara cut him off, her voice calm but resolute. “And I’m telling you that I’m leaving for the day. The file will be here tomorrow morning.”
Ethan clutched the folder tighter, his knuckles turning white. “He won’t be pleased.”
“That’s not my concern anymore.” Elara picked up her purse and walked past him.
She felt lighter with each step toward the elevator. For years, she’d jumped at Damien’s every command, sacrificing evenings, weekends, even holidays to meet his
unreasonable demands. Not tonight.
As the elevator doors closed, she caught a glimpse of Ethan hurrying toward Damien’s office, no doubt to report her insubordination. Let him. She had more important things to worry about.
In his corner office, Damien Thorne frowned as Ethan explained the situation.
“She refused to take the file, sir. Said she was done for the day.”
Damien’s fingers drummed against the polished surface of his desk. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. She just… left.”
“I see.” His voice was cold, detached. “Perhaps Mrs. Thorne has forgotten her responsibilities to this company.”
“Should I call her? Insist that she return?”
Damien waved a dismissive hand. “No need. If she’s no longer invested in her position here, we’ll simply terminate it.”
Ethan shifted uncomfortably. “Terminate her position? But she’s been with the company for-”
“Seven years, yes. And apparently those seven years mean nothing to her now.” Damien
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turned his attention back to his computer screen. “That will be all, Ethan.”
Alone in his office, Damien loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair. The action
was so unlike Elara – defiant, dismissive. The woman he’d married had been eager to
please, meticulous in her duties. This new attitude… he found it unsettling.
His phone buzzed with a message from Vivienne: “Dinner at 8? I’ve reserved our table
at Laurent’s.”
He texted back a quick confirmation before gathering his things. Whatever was going on with Elara, it could wait until tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Elara pulled into the driveway of her grandmother’s modest Victorian home. The familiar sight of the well–tended garden and warm, glowing windows brought a genuine smile to her face for the first time that day.
Clara Bellweather opened the door before Elara could knock, her wrinkled face lighting up with joy.
“My darling girl!” She embraced Elara tightly. “Let me look at you.”
Clara studied her granddaughter’s face, her wise eyes seeing too much. “You’ve made a decision, haven’t you?”
Elara nodded, following her grandmother into the cozy living room where her uncle
Victor sat in his usual armchair.
“Elara!” Victor stood to hug her. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“I invited her for dinner,” Clara explained. “And from the look on her face, I’d say she has news to share.”
They settled in the dining room, where the rich aroma of pot roast filled the air. For a while, they spoke of simple things – the garden, the weather, local gossip. It wasn’t until they were finishing their meal that Victor’s expression grew troubled.
“I hate to bring up business at dinner,” he began hesitantly, “but the situation at Vance Technologies is becoming critical.”
Clara shot him a warning look, but he continued.
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“The last quarter was brutal. If we don’t secure additional funding soon…”
“Let’s not worry Elara with this,” Clara interrupted. “She has enough on her plate.”
Elara set down her fork. “No, Grandma, I want to know. How bad is it, Uncle Victor?”
Victor ran a hand through his thinning hair. “We need at least five million to stay afloat through the next quarter. The bank won’t extend our line of credit again.”
“Have you approached investors?”
“Everyone’s wary after the failed product launch last year. Our reputation took a hit.”
Elara nodded thoughtfully. She’d been so consumed with her own problems that she hadn’t paid enough attention to her family’s struggling company – the very company her father had built from nothing.
After a moment of calculation, she made her decision. “I can help.”
“Elara, no,” Clara protested. “We’re not asking you for money.”
“I know you’re not. But I want to do this.” She turned to Victor. “I can transfer seven million to the company account tomorrow.”
Victor stared at her in shock. “Seven million? Elara, where would you even get that kind of money?”
She smiled faintly. “Did you forget I co–founded YodaVision before I married Damien? Julian has been sending me my share of the profits all these years. I’ve barely touched
it.”
Clara reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “You’ve been saving all this time?”
“I didn’t need it. Damien provided everything.” A shadow crossed her face. “But that’s changing now. And I want to help. That company was my father’s legacy.”
Victor’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “This would save us, Elara. But are you
sure?”
“Absolutely. And there’s more. I’m returning to YodaVision next month. If things go well with our new AI integration project, I might be able to create a partnership that would benefit Vance Technologies too.”
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For the first time in months, Elara felt a sense of purpose, of agency. She wasn’t just Damien Thorne’s overlooked wife – she was Elara Vance, brilliant AI specialist and businesswoman in her own right.
Later that evening, Damien returned to the penthouse after his dinner with Vivienne. The apartment was quiet, the living room dark except for a small lamp. He checked his watch – just past ten.
Cora’s room was his first stop. His daughter lay sleeping, her dark curls spilling across the pillow, her favorite stuffed rabbit clutched tightly in one arm. He leaned down to kiss her forehead gently.
“Goodnight, princess,” he whispered.
Continuing down the hallway, he paused outside the master bedroom. He expected to find Elara there, perhaps already asleep or reading one of her novels. For some reason, the confrontation with her today still nagged at him.
He turned the doorknob and flipped on the light.
The room was empty. The bed was made, untouched. Elara’s side of the closet looked sparse – not entirely empty, but many of her usual items were missing.
Damien stood in the doorway, a strange uneasiness settling in his chest. Where was
she?
He pulled out his phone, hesitating before dialing her number. After several rings, it went to voicemail.
“This is Elara. Please leave a message.”
He disconnected without speaking. Seven years of marriage, and he suddenly realized he had no idea where his wife might be at ten o’clock on a Wednesday night.
For the first time since receiving her divorce papers, a troubling thought occurred to Damien Thorne – perhaps Elara was truly serious about leaving him.
–
He walked to the window, looking out at the glittering city below. Somewhere out there, his wife was building a life that no longer included him. The realization should have brought relief – wasn’t this what he’d wanted all along? Freedom from a marriage
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he’d been forced into?
Instead, as he stood alone in the silent bedroom, Damien felt something unexpected – curiosity about the woman who had shared his name for seven years, yet remained
somehow unknown to him.
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