The Alpha s Rejected Heir

"Yeah, fuck me, I love it-come on."

The sounds of passion shouldn't have reached my ears from behind the closed, mahogany double doors of Jason Thorne's private suite. But they did.

Loud. Unmistakable.

A deep, powerful groan-definitely his, carrying the unmistakable low tenor of Jason Thorne-was followed by a sharp, breathless cry that I instantly recognized as belonging to Stephanie. It was a sound of profound, consuming ecstasy, echoing the painful truth of what was happening inside.

My lungs tightened, the air suddenly too thin in the hallowed halls of the Thorne penthouse. I stood outside the heavy door, a small white envelope containing my mother's dinner invitation feeling ridiculously flimsy in my hand. I was supposed to knock, present the invitation, and wait for Jason to grace us with his presence at the dining table. Instead, I was rooted to the Italian marble floor, listening to the agonizing proof that the man I foolishly loved was actively, loudly engaged with the woman I dreaded.

I heard the man I secretly obsessed over-the one who treated me like garbage-whisper a low, possessive command, followed by Stephanie's sharp intake of breath. As I peeked, the sight before me shattered my heart as I saw the man I supposedly loved sliding his dick-one I had never once touched or seen-into the pussy of the girl who once treated me like trash. The sight before me was like a dagger piercing straight through my heart.

The immediate, humiliating surge of vicarious desire, mixed with soul-crushing jealousy, pierced my soul. I wish that was me. I wish I was the one making that sound for him.

It was my own secret crush on Jason Thorne, the man who treated me like a poorly cataloged piece of family property, that made the sounds so unbearable. The crush was stupid. It was weak. It was the only thing I hadn't managed to root out during my eight years living under his roof.

It contradicted all the evidence: Jason's deadly contempt for my presence, his constant need to remind the world that I was nothing more than an adopted stray brought in by his overly sentimental mother, Anna Thorne. He never failed to put that tag-adopted-on me, like a scarlet letter stitched into the very fabric of my expensive, borrowed life.

He'd rather tell the world I was a charity case than let them forget I didn't possess the inherent ruthlessness required to be a true Thorne. I didn't have the killer instinct; I didn't naturally crave power or the blood of a corporate rival. In his eyes, that made me a disgrace to the entire billion-dollar dynasty he was destined to command.

The doorknob turned, startling me. I quickly straightened my clothes and adjusted the expression on my face, aiming for neutral professionalism.

Stephanie stepped out first. She was draped in a silk robe that was far too large for her, which only highlighted the fact that she had just been sharing a bed-or maybe the floor, given the enthusiasm-with Jason. Her eyes, usually cold and calculating, were flushed with smug satisfaction. She looked me up and down, her lip curling in a familiar sneer.

"Looking for something, Jasmine?" she purred, her voice dripping with syrupy malice. "Don't bother. Whatever deal you're trying to pitch is already closed. And next time you're given such an offer, pass on it."

She was referring to the small internship opportunity I'd been hoping for in the Thorne Foundation-the charitable wing of the corporation, the place Jason scornfully referred to as the 'pity department.' Stephanie had evidently been instrumental in having that door slammed shut, too.

I rolled my eyes, intending to walk away and just lie to my mother that Jason was busy. I didn't have the energy to fight a battle I was doomed to lose. But Stephanie wasn't finished. The woman thrived on conflict, and her goal was never just to win, but to inflict pain.

She stepped out of the room entirely, allowing a sliver of the dimly lit, chaotic suite to show. Then, with a speed and fury that belied her polished exterior, she grabbed my arm just above the elbow, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my skin.

"Look at me when I talk to you, little orphan," she hissed, pulling me back toward the door. "You think wearing those tailored suits makes you one of us? You're nothing. Just a placeholder until Jason kicks you out of this house for good. You don't belong here, and you certainly don't belong near him."

Her grip tightened, painful and humiliating. I was struggling, fury beginning to simmer beneath my neutral façade, when a sharp, frigid voice cut through the air.

"Let her go, Stephanie."

Jason.