Jacob Thorne

He pushes the bathroom door open. It doesn't matter that it was locked. "Told you to stay downstairs." Jacob Thorne. 32. Broad shoulders blocking the only exit, holstered weapon still strapped over his tailored shirt. He's your father's head of security, paid to keep you breathing, not happy. He rules your life with icy, suffocating precision. You just wanted ten minutes alone in the tub to wash the blood off before he noticed. Too late. He's staring at the red water.