– Adrian –
My private lounge low lighting spills from a suspended glass fixture overhead, casting gold shadows across the matte black walls.
The air smells faintly of aged leather and whiskey, every corner is curated, sleek marble bar in the back, a roaring fire programmed into the in wall digital hearth, and floor to ceiling glass overlooking the Halston skyline, dimmed now by the blackout tint.
A decanter sits untouched on the glass table.
Paxton leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced like he's about to pray.
Oliver stands near the door, arms crossed, face drawn tight.
"Start talking",I say.
Paxton exhales like he's bracing for impact, "After the annual event last night, a few of my friends dragged me to some club downtown, I didn't even plan to stay long, but then I met her, she insisted that we go to a hotel," he swallows, "We... we took a drug, I don't even remember what exactly. The next thing I knew, I woke up on the bathroom floor."
He winces, "I swear, Adrian. I walked out and found her like that barely breathing, clothes torn, I didn't touch her, I didn't do anything. I panicked, I didn't know what else to do. I thought she was—"
Oliver shifts beside me, but stays quiet.
I lean back in the chair, arms folded.
"Do you know who she is?"
Paxton shakes his head.
"Well right now she's a liability with a hospital report that could burn this family to the ground."
"I didn't mean for it to happen—"
"That won't matter in court," I cut in, "Intentions don't clean up crime scenes."
Then Oliver's phone buzzes on the table, he snatches it quickly and steps aside to take the call.
Oliver turns back to us, "She's stable, still unconscious, but stable, no brain damage, they're still running tests."
I nod once.
"Keep it quiet, No leaks."
Oliver hesitates.
"They want a family representative, for next of kin protocol, they haven't identified her yet."
I exhale "Get me the entry logs for The Lemaire Grand."
"On it", Oliver says with a nod.
I turn to Paxton.
"You're going to pray she never wakes up with a story that contradicts yours."
---
The Next Morning
The executive wing of Sinclair Holdings operates on a curated rhythm, elevator chimes every thirty seconds, heels clicking in perfect tempo down marble corridors.
The upper floor where decisions cost millions are designed like a luxury fortress.
Every employee up here was handpicked for one thing, precision, no noise, no mistakes
As I stepped into the executive corridor, something's… off, not loud, just quiet in the wrong way.
A junior assistant spots me from the far end and immediately straightens, clutching her tablet like a lifeline. One of the interns near the elevators nudges the guy beside him barely noticeable, but I catch the movement. Two analysts heading out of the strategy room glanced up as I passed and exchanged a look before quickly lowering their eyes.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Something else.
The receptionist tries not to smile when I walk by.
I keep moving.
Logan's already waiting outside my office like always, but his posture's too stiff, too rehearsed. Eyes tracking me a little too closely, like he's waiting for a reaction before I've even spoken.
Strange.
"Sir, I—"
"You'll need to move the Geneva file review to noon," I say, not slowing down. "Also schedule a meeting with the Italian investors."
"Yes, but—"
"Also cross check the board's private flights manifest, If one of them skipped the gala last minute, I want to know why."
I reach the door.
"Sir— she's here."
I pause mid step.
"Who?"
But before he could answer, I pushed the door open.
And there she is.
Milana Monroe.
Seated in the chair across from my desk, calm, collected, legs crossed. One hand resting lightly on the armrest, her presence cuts cleaner than any corporate blade.
---
– Milana –
I stare out the glass wall behind his desk, watching the Halston skyline blur against the morning light.
I hold the phone to my ear with one hand, the other resting on the arm of the chair.
"No, I'm serious, Isla, he practically said it like he's doing me a favor," I muttered, keeping my voice low.
Isla exhales, "Your brother's insane."
I smirk, "Tell me something I don't know."
The door handle clicks.
"I'll talk to you later," I say, already lowering the phone, "Yeah, Bye."
The door swings open.
I lift my eyes and there he is.
Adrian Sinclair.
He stops in the doorway, dressed in another one of those sharp suits that look like they were made for the silence he carries. We stare at each other for a few seconds, neither of us blinking.
He doesn't look surprised.
Then, without saying a word, he lifts a hand and waves it once, dismissive, clean.
Out.
Logan, who was standing just behind him, gives a small nod and steps away without a sound, the door clicks shut behind him.
Now it's just the two of us.
Adrian crosses the room without hurry, every step measured, his gaze not leaving mine, he rounds his desk, unbuttons his jacket, and lowers himself into the leather chair.
"I don't recall authorizing you to come to my office unannounced," he says, voice low, clipped.
"I couldn't reach you," I reply, keeping my tone calm. "You didn't take my calls, you didn't respond to my messages."
He leans back, fingers resting against the armrest. "You could have gone through the front desk—or my assistant."
I tilt my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Let me remind you that we're engaged, how do you think it looks if I can't reach my own fiancé? Seems to me you're eager to prove the conspiracy everyone's whispering about."
His eyes narrow, just slightly, "What's your reason for being here, Milana?"
"The PR synergy," I say smoothly. "Your board benefits from the engagement being more than a headline, so does my father's company, I'm here to make that happen."
The corner of his mouth twitches, not a smile, more like restrained amusement. "Then I hope for your sake, Milana, that you're better at PR than you are at subtlety."
He drums his fingers once against the desk. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
"A united front," I say simply, "Public events, photographs, appearances that make it very clear we're not some arrangement falling apart before it begins."
His gaze sharpens, as if weighing the effort against his patience, "You want to play perfect couple for the cameras."
"I want to control the narrative before it controls us," I correct.
A pause stretches between us, finally, he exhales, low and deliberate. "Fine, but we do it on my terms, my schedule."
I give a faint smile. "We have an agreement, then."
He doesn't smile back, but the flicker in his eyes tells me I've won at least half the battle.
I rise, smoothing the front of my dress, and pick up my bag from the chair.
Making my way towards the door, my hand grazes the handle before I glance back over my shoulder.
"Oh, and Adrain—if you'd prefer I don't show up unannounced again, then answer your phone and respond to my messages."
I don't wait for his reply before stepping out.
…
– Adrian –
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving only the faint trace of her scent in the air. I sink back into my chair, eyes fixed on the skyline, but my mind is elsewhere.
My phone on the desk buzzes.
Oliver's name flashes on the screen, I answer.
"I got the entry logs from The Lemaire Grand," he says without preamble. "You're going to want to hear this."
I lean forward. "Go on."
"There's a name here you'll recognize—Cieera."
My grip on the phone tightens. "Nicholas's wife?"
"Yes, she checked in right before Paxton arrived with the girl," Oliver continues. "Minutes before."
Silence stretches between us, heavy and sharp.
"Send me everything," I say, voice flat.
I ended the call and stared at the desk, the pieces shifting in my head into something far more dangerous than coincidence.