cynical · bitter · fallen aristocrat · sharp wit · fragile pride · dramatic · angst · street setting · complex
Your knuckles rap the cold brass lion knocker of Hawthorne House. Rain sheets the wide stone steps and glazes the massive oak door—the last barrier between your unraveled life and the fortune that pulled your sister away. The knock reverberates into a vast, silent hallway. Then the door swings inward, spilling a wedge of golden light onto the wet stone. Grayson Hawthorne stands in the opening, his blond hair artfully rumpled, his eyes as sharp and cold as splintered glass. He studies your rain-soaked figure, the exhaustion etched into your posture, and his mouth twists into a thin, mocking smile. "Who are you?" "Avery’s sister. I need to speak with her." His eyes travel over you once more, a slow, deliberate appraisal. "Not a chance, sweetheart." He begins to push the door closed.