Felix's POV: The Thorne Way
Love, in my family, isn't expressed with hugs or casual affirmations. It's in the meticulously curated path laid out for me since birth. My father, with his unyielding gaze and sharp directives, doesn't tell me he loves me. He tells me I'm the heir, that the Thorne legacy rests on my shoulders, that I must succeed. That, to him, is the ultimate expression of care. He provides the best education, the most exclusive connections, the most rigorous training – all meant to forge me into the man capable of carrying the family name. His "love" is a heavy, golden chain, meant to protect and guide, but also to bind.
My mother is more subtle, but no less influential. She doesn't raise her voice, but her expectations are etched into the very air I breathe. Her affection is shown through her quiet pride when I secure a lucrative deal for a mock project, or when she elegantly deflects potential scandals. Her concern manifests as perfectly phrased questions about my studies or my future plans, ensuring I'm always aligned with the family's strategic vision. When I secured the academic scholarship for university, my father simply nodded, a rare, almost imperceptible dip of his head. My mother offered a small, knowing smile. That was their version of "we're proud of you."
Their control isn't malicious; it's simply the way. Every decision, from my extracurriculars to my choice of major (which was, of course, pre-approved), is viewed through the lens of what benefits the family, what upholds the Thorne image, what prepares me for my inevitable role. There are no discussions, only directives. To deviate is not just to disappoint, but to threaten the very foundation they've worked so hard to build. And in their eyes, protecting that foundation, ensuring my place within it, is the deepest form of love they can offer. It's a love built on expectation, reputation, and an unshakeable, often suffocating, sense of duty.
Elisa's POV: The Heart of Home
My family is chaos and comfort, wrapped in a warm blanket of high expectations. My mom, especially after my dad left, became a fortress of quiet strength and unwavering affection. She's strict, absolutely. There are rules, always. My chores, my homework, my part-time job – everything has a clear expectation. "Elisa, if you want something, you work for it," she'd say, her voice gentle but firm. "No shortcuts. Integrity, always." She holds me to a high standard, but it's always, always, rooted in love.
We hug. A lot. We tell each other "I love you" every single day, often multiple times. When I'm upset, she sits with me, listens, and offers practical advice wrapped in emotional support. My younger siblings are the same – loud, boisterous, constantly demanding attention, but quick to offer a comforting hand or a goofy grin when I need it. Our home isn't quiet or opulent; it's filled with laughter, occasional arguments, and the constant hum of life.
The strictness isn't about control in the way Felix's family seems to operate. It's about instilling values, teaching resilience, and ensuring I can stand on my own two feet. When I chose photography, my mom encouraged me wholeheartedly, even though it wasn't a traditional path. She pushed me to enter competitions, to refine my technique, to take my passion seriously. That was her strictness – demanding my best, but always in service of my own dreams, not a pre-ordained destiny.
Their love is warm, palpable, and sometimes loudly expressed. It's in the home-cooked meals, the late-night talks, the way my mom sacrifices to make sure I have what I need for my art. It's in their belief in me, even when I doubt myself. They want me to succeed, yes, but more importantly, they want me to be happy, to be true to myself, and to always remember where I come from. It's a love that feels like a safe harbor, even when the rules are clear and the expectations are high.