Chapter 17
2176words
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate
Kristina woke to the sound of rain.
Not the heavy kind that battered rooftops or turned streets into rivers—but the softer kind. Steady. Gentle. The sort of sound that made people stay in bed longer, pull blankets higher, pretend the world outside could wait a few more minutes.
She didn’t.
She shifted slowly, testing her shoulder. The ache was still there—dull now, manageable. She could move her right arm again, even if it didn’t like sudden movements. The sling had been gone for days, and with it, the excuse to linger in bed.
She got up and reached for the sweater folded neatly over the chair beside her nightstand—one of Lucian’s, worn and familiar. He always left them there when she wasn’t looking. At first, they just appeared: draped over the back of the chair, tucked beside the extra pillow. Later, she realized he’d started letting himself into her room without announcement—quiet as always, careful not to be seen by the others.He never said anything about it. Never asked for them back. And she never asked why.Maybe they both understood what it meant. Maybe it only mattered that it was just him—and that she didn’t mind.
After the morning she’d awkwardly asked to borrow one of his shirts again, he stopped waiting for her to ask. He simply began leaving them in her room—draped on the chair, sometimes folded, sometimes not—so she wouldn’t have to.
She wore them—every day since. Lucian never commented. Never replaced them. Every shirt had been worn before—creased at the elbows, sleeves faintly stretched, his scent clinging to the fabric like memory.
And she never asked for anything else.
Maybe they both understood why.
New clothes wouldn’t offer the same thing—not warmth, not comfort. What she reached for wasn’t fabric, but familiarity. Safety. The echo of him, steady and near, when everything else had gone quiet.
So he kept leaving them.
And she kept wearing them.
No explanations. No need.
The house was still. Morning hadn’t quite reached it yet. There was no smell of coffee, no quiet thud of Eli’s boots in the corridor, no murmured conversation from the dining area. Just the low whisper of rain against glass and the faint hum of something unspoken beneath her skin.
Kristina leaned on the kitchen counter and filled a glass of water. Her hand brushed the edge of a nearby notepad—Lucian’s, judging by the neat block handwriting—and she idly scanned the scribbled tasks.
Nothing unusual. Inventory reviews. Staffing updates. Meeting with Harold… Friday.
She blinked.
Friday. December 10.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
She hadn’t marked the day in years. Forgetting had become safer than remembering.
Her birthday.
Not that anyone knew. She hadn’t said a word. She never did. Not even Maxim tried to make a thing of it anymore—he always remembered, always sent something small. A folded letter. A charm from an old bracelet. A book with a pressed flower tucked between the pages. He tried, in his way.
But she’d never let him celebrate it.
She never let anyone celebrate anything.
Because it didn’t feel like something worth marking. It wasn’t a milestone. It was just another day she hadn’t died. A day she got through. Nothing more.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Operations Room
Sebastian was digging through old personnel files.
Technically, he was supposed to be helping Eli restructure the deployment logs for the January field teams, but the system’s archive was a mess—and sorting it meant running diagnostics on every file tagged under “Sinclair Dominion Security.”
And that’s when he saw it.
ALONZO, KRISTINA – BIRTHDATE: DECEMBER 10, 1983
He paused. Blinked. Double-checked the document header to make sure it wasn’t some unrelated entry. It wasn’t.
“Hey,” he called across the room to Eli, who was elbow-deep in calibration reports. “Did you know today’s Raven’s—sorry, Kristina’s—birthday?”
Eli looked up, puzzled. “No. She didn’t say anything.”
“Of course not,” Sebastian muttered. Then stood. “Lucian needs to see this.”
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Lucian’s Study
Sebastian handed over the file in silence.
Lucian stared at the date.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then, quietly: “Of course she didn’t tell us.”
Sebastian folded his arms. “You’re not going to throw her a party, are you?”
“No.” A pause. “But we’re doing something. Quiet. Just for her.”
He tapped the file once before closing it. “Tell Ash. He’s better with… small things. And get Vex. Eli, too. They’ll know what not to do.”
Sebastian tilted his head. “You sure she won’t hate it?”
Lucian’s expression softened slightly, just enough to show something unguarded. “I think she’ll try not to.”
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Dining Area
Kristina hadn’t planned on doing anything that night.
She’d showered, put on another one of Lucian’s button-downs—still black, left open over a simple black tank—and tied her hair back loosely. She wore a pair of black taslan shorts, lightweight and cut just above mid-thigh—not too short, not too long, the kind made for quiet ease rather than show. Her arm didn’t ache as much anymore, but the weather left a lingering tension in her shoulder. She thought about retreating to the library for the evening. Maybe the rooftop.
But the moment she stepped out of her room, something felt… different.
The lights down the hall were dimmed lower than usual. There was no low drone of conversation, no clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Just soft instrumental music, almost too faint to hear.
She moved slowly, quietly.
When she turned the corner into the open dining space, she froze.
The table had been set. Properly. Not for strategy meetings. Not for routine meals. There were plates and real silverware, folded napkins, even candles—three of them, flickering low. The smell of something warm and savory drifted in from the kitchen. Glasses were half-filled. Everyone was already seated.
Sebastian, arms crossed like he’d been waiting for a show. Eli, pretending to be on his phone but watching the doorway. Ash had his sleeves rolled up and Vex had somehow claimed the chair at the far end like it was a throne.
And at the head of the table, still in a dress shirt but no tie, Lucian stood. His expression unreadable—until he saw her.
Then he smiled. Just barely. But it reached his eyes.
His gaze lingered—just a beat longer than it should’ve—on the black button-down she wore, unmistakably his, the fabric soft from too many washes. And beneath it, those shorts. Practical, sure, but not without effect. Loose enough to move in, just short enough to make his thoughts stall for half a second longer than he meant them to.
He looked away before it could show. But the smile stayed, tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.
And maybe she noticed. Or maybe she didn’t.
Either way, she didn’t say a word.
Harold was seated next to Ash, looking perfectly at home, wine glass already in hand. And beside Eli, at the opposite end of the table, Maxim sat back with a quiet presence that grounded the entire room. His eyes found hers first, and something softened. Not surprised. Not apologetic.
Just… steady. Like always.
Kristina stared. “What—?”
Lucian moved first. He stepped away from the head of the table and came toward her with slow, even steps. Not imposing. Not pressing. Just meeting her halfway.
“No speeches,” he said quietly. “No banners. No singing.” His gaze flicked across her face. “Just dinner. If you want it.”
Kristina looked at them all. The candles. The food. The ridiculous attempt at subtlety.
No one said “happy birthday.”
But they didn’t have to.
She swallowed hard. “Did Papa tell you?”
“No,” Lucian said. “Sebastian found an old personnel file.”
She didn’t ask why anyone had been digging through files.
Instead, she gave a small nod and stepped forward. Lucian guided her to the chair beside his, one hand briefly brushing her back. Just a touch. But it steadied her more than she expected.
Maxim stood as she approached and helped pull her chair out, as though she were still fifteen and under his watch again.
“You remembered,” she said to him quietly.
“I always do.” Then, after a pause: “You’ve just never let me do anything about it.”
Her throat tightened. “I still don’t know if I’m letting you.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “We’ll take the risk.”
She sat. The conversation eased back into motion. Not loud. Not forced. Just… natural.
Somewhere between courses, she realized a ribboned parcel had been placed at her setting. Vex shrugged as she picked it up.
“Don’t get sentimental,” he said. “It’s a knife. Just sharper than the one you carry.”
Ash passed her a folded fan carved from scrap wood and twisted brass. “You can throw it,” he said proudly. “If you practice.”
Eli offered a small black bag with blister packs of vitamins, a new phone holster, a lot of pens, and a notebook. “You complain about none of your pens working. They’re all black, by the way. In case you didn’t notice,” he muttered, and sat back down without waiting for thanks.
She didn’t know what to say.
So she didn’t. Not yet.
But Lucian’s hand found hers beneath the table. Just briefly.
And for the first time in years, Kristina didn’t think about what she had survived.
For once, she let herself feel the weight of something that might remain.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Main Entrance Hall
Maxim stood near the open door, coat on, scarf draped loosely at his neck. The rain had stopped sometime during dinner, leaving the driveway slick and gleaming under the security lights.
Kristina walked him out. Not because she had to—but because she wanted to.
Harold lingered just behind them, already bidding quiet goodbyes to Ash and Vex.
“You didn’t have to come,” Kristina said, arms crossed lightly, not out of defiance—but to hold herself together.
“I know.” Maxim adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “But I wanted to see the kind of people keeping you safe now.”
Her mouth tilted into something almost-smile. “And?”
“They’re strange. But they’ll do.”
She nodded, quiet for a beat. “Thank you. For… not making it a thing.”
“It was never about the day,” Maxim said gently. “Only that you’re still here to see it.”
Kristina’s throat tightened, and for a second she couldn’t speak. Maxim didn’t press her.
Instead, he leaned forward and placed a hand on the back of her head—briefly, tenderly, as if blessing something he no longer had to protect.
“Happy birthday, Kristina,” he said, not like a wish, but a truth.
Then he turned and walked out into the night.
Harold gave her a nod as he followed. “He’s right, you know. They’re strange. But they’ll do.”
And then the door closed behind them.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Rooftop Garden
Almost Midnight
She didn’t go back to her room yet.
The house had gone quiet—shadows settling into corners, soft hum of machines dimmed for the night. She climbed the stairs to the rooftop alone.
The sky above was dark velvet, clouds stretched thin after the rain. The wind was cooler up there. Not biting. Just real.
She sat on the low stone ledge overlooking the back lawn, one leg tucked under her, the other swinging slightly. Her sweater—Lucian’s—was too big, sleeves falling past her hands. She didn’t fix them.
Beside her, on the ledge, sat the carved brass fan from Ash. The knife from Vex. Eli’s little black notebook. Each one set gently in a line.
Kristina traced her thumb along the knife’s ribbon.
“Papa always remembered,” she whispered to no one. “He tried to throw me a party once. I refused. I don’t know why.”
The city in the distance blinked with scattered lights.
She didn’t cry.
But something inside her softened—like muscle learning it didn’t have to brace anymore.
Moments later, Lucian stepped onto the rooftop. He didn’t say her name. He didn’t need to.
His footsteps were soft against the stone, steady and unhurried. He stopped a few feet away, just far enough to give her space. He didn’t speak—just watched her, quiet and still, like a memory he wasn’t sure he was allowed to keep.
And she didn’t turn, didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.
She knew it was him. She always knew when it was him.
He stood there for a moment, letting the silence stretch—not heavy, but deliberate.
Then finally, quietly:
“You left your gift inside.”
She glanced back at him, one brow arched. “Which one?”
Lucian’s hands were in his pockets, sleeves pushed back slightly, watch glinting under the rooftop light.
“The one I didn’t wrap.”
Kristina tilted her head, curious. “And what was it?”
Lucian didn’t answer. Just stepped closer, gaze steady, unreadable.
“I’ll show you,” he said. “If you come back downstairs.”
Her lips twitched at the corner.
“Is that a bribe?”
“No,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s a promise.”
She didn’t ask for it to matter. But it did.
—To be continued.
