Chapter 29
2269words
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Kitchen
The kitchen felt colder than it should have.
Not in temperature—but in tone. In the quiet shuffles of movement, the clink of mugs, the hollow way sound drifted without anchoring anywhere.
Kristina’s usual place—between Lucian and Sebastian—sat empty.
No extra mug on the counter. No soft footsteps behind them. No quiet voice chiming in with a sarcastic remark just before Eli could finish his own.
Lucian sat at the head of the table, a mug cradled in both hands, his eyes unfocused on something in the distance—or nothing at all. He hadn’t spoken since they walked in. Not even when Vex shoved the espresso machine like it had personally betrayed him.
Sebastian was nearly as quiet, eyes tracking Lucian more than the reports in front of him. The silence between them wasn’t tense. Just... weighted.
Eli tried first.
“So. Gala day. Black tie. Free champagne. Terrible music. What’s not to love?”
No one laughed.
Ash cleared his throat, pushing a folder down the table. “Event security assignments are final. Ballroom sweep starts at four. Team One leads exterior rotation. Vex and I are on guest entry.”
Vex raised his mug. “We’re basically glorified butlers with better weapons.”
“I love that for us,” Eli deadpanned. “Also, reminder: no one let me near the microphone this year. I’m legally funnier with alcohol.”
Nothing from Lucian.
Not even a smirk.
Ash hesitated, then added, “Shuttles leave at five-thirty. Anyone not ready by then walks to the hotel in full tux.”
That got a soft exhale of amusement from Sebastian. Barely audible.
Lucian didn’t react.
Eli tried again, feigning brightness. “Okay but hear me out. We hit the gala, do our jobs, survive the usual political landmines, and someone—probably me—ends up on the dance floor for five seconds of accidental dignity before I trip over someone’s great-aunt.”
“I give it four seconds,” Vex muttered.
“Generous,” Ash added.
Eli snapped his fingers. “See? That’s the team spirit.”
But still, the room didn’t lift. Not really. The humor skimmed the surface, but didn’t land.
Lucian sipped his coffee, jaw tense, eyes distant. He hadn’t touched the briefings. Hadn’t looked at the itinerary. Hadn’t said her name.
Sebastian finally broke his silence—not loud, not pushing. Just low enough that only Lucian might catch it.
“She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
Lucian didn’t respond. Didn’t move.
But his grip on the mug tightened—just slightly.
And outside the window, the sky was winter-gray and waiting.
Maxim Thorne’s Estate | Breakfast Nook
The morning was crisp and still.
Thin winter light streamed through the tall windows, softening the sharp lines of the Thorne estate’s modern interior. The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and warm rye toast. Beyond the frost-laced glass, the gardens lay quiet, untouched by the world waking up.
Kristina sat at the small round table in the breakfast nook, hands curled around a mug she hadn’t taken a sip from. Her coat was folded over the back of her chair. Her boots, still damp from her walk across the lawn, rested neatly beside her.
Across from her, Maxim read the paper. Or at least, pretended to.
He hadn’t asked anything. Not yet.
Kristina finally spoke, voice low but clear. “I thought it would feel more final.”
Maxim folded the paper gently and set it aside. “And does it?”
She shook her head. “It feels like I left something half-finished. Like I stepped out of the room before the story ended.”
Maxim nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Sometimes, stepping away is the only way to hear your own voice again.”
“I don’t know what it’s saying.”
“That’s because it’s still learning what it wants.”
Kristina looked down at her coffee, eyes distant. “I waited so long to be near him. To matter to him. And now that I do… I don’t know if I should stay.”
Maxim didn’t try to answer right away. He simply reached for the teapot between them and poured her another cup.
“I don’t think there’s a version of this where you don’t miss him,” he said gently. “The question is—do you want the ache of missing him from a distance, or the risk of staying close and not knowing what comes next?”
Kristina’s eyes lifted to meet his.
“And what if I’m not enough for the life he’s built?”
Maxim’s answer was quiet but firm. “Then he built the wrong life. But I don’t think he did.”
She blinked once, but said nothing.
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable but kind. “You don’t owe anyone certainty, Kristina. Especially not when you’ve spent most of your life surviving other people’s decisions.”
A pause. Then, softer:
“But you do deserve to make your own.”
Kristina looked out the window again. The quiet pressed in—familiar, but not cold.
“I don’t want to disappear from them,” she said. “From him.”
“You haven’t,” Maxim said. “You just stepped outside long enough to decide if the fire’s still worth standing in.”
Kristina gave a small smile. Faint, but real.
“Do you think they’ll hate me for leaving?”
“No.” He reached for his tea. “They’ll miss you. And Lucian will try not to show it. Badly.”
She laughed quietly, then sobered. “Do you think I’ll go back?”
“I think you already know the answer to that,” he said. “You just haven’t said it out loud yet.”
Kristina didn’t answer.
But she didn’t deny it either.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Lucian’s Study
Late Morning
The knock was a formality.
Harold Sinclair pushed open the study doors without waiting for permission, his cane tapping once against the threshold before he stepped inside. The fire was lit. The blinds half-drawn. The room smelled faintly of coffee and cedar smoke.
Lucian sat at the desk, his fingers motionless on a closed leather portfolio, gaze distant—fixed on nothing in particular.
Harold took his time crossing the room.
“I assume your staff remembered to tell you I was coming,” he said dryly.
Lucian blinked, as if just remembering how to be present. “They did.”
Harold gave a nod and sank slowly into the armchair opposite the desk, resting his cane against the side.
“Then I’ll skip the pleasantries and go straight to the point. The gala’s tonight. There are thirty-seven names on the VIP list. Twelve of them expect personal acknowledgment from you. Five more expect preferential seating. And two of them would sell their mothers to corner you for a merger pitch.”
Lucian didn’t react. Just stared past him.
Harold lifted an eyebrow. “You plan on being conscious for any of it?”
A beat passed.
Then Lucian leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. “I’ll be there.”
“I didn’t ask if you’ll show up,” Harold said, leveling his gaze. “I asked whether you’ll be present.”
That earned the smallest flicker in Lucian’s expression. Not irritation—just weariness. The kind that had settled in over time, like dust gathering in places no one noticed until it was too thick to ignore.
Harold didn’t press. Just studied him for a long, quiet moment.
“Still haven’t heard from her?” he asked, voice low.
Lucian shook his head once.
Harold let out a quiet breath. “She’ll come back.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” Harold admitted. “But I’ve seen what it looks like when someone leaves for good. And this doesn’t look like that.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.
Harold shifted in his seat and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper—the final list of donors, guests, and speaking roles for the evening.
“I can handle the introductions if you want to sneak in late,” he offered, setting the page down on the desk.
“I won’t sneak in,” Lucian said. “This is my company.”
“But you’re not going to be in your skin tonight either,” Harold murmured. “You’ll be looking at every exit. Listening for every car that pulls up. Watching for a face you’re not even sure wants to be seen.”
Lucian didn’t deny it.
Harold studied him again. “You’ve stood in front of foreign ministers, royal families, hostile investors. But this—this is what finally knocks you off balance.”
Lucian gave a humorless smile. “It figures.”
Harold’s voice softened—just a shade. “You ever think that maybe this is the part that makes you human?”
Lucian looked down at the page in front of him. His fingers moved to straighten it, though it was already perfectly aligned. His voice, when it came, was quiet.
“She told me she didn’t know yet. That she needed space.”
“And you believed her,” Harold said.
Lucian nodded.
“Then give her what she asked for,” Harold said simply. “Show up. Do what needs doing. Don’t let the board, or the press, or the wolves scent blood.”
Lucian’s gaze lifted.
“And when the moment comes,” Harold added, “be ready to mean whatever you say. Because she’ll be listening for more than words.”
Another long silence.
Then Lucian gave the smallest nod.
Harold rose with effort and collected his cane, wincing just slightly as he straightened.
He paused at the doorway.
“One more thing,” he said. “If you do show up with a date after all… make sure the press gets it right.”
Lucian raised an eyebrow. “You’re expecting a miracle?”
“No,” Harold said, dry as bone. “I’m just hoping you don’t die of pride before she walks through the damn door.”
And then he was gone.
Lucian stayed seated for a long while—silent, unmoving, the paper still untouched in front of him.
The fire crackled in the hearth.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered what Kristina would be wearing—if she came.
The Marlowe Grand Hotel | Outside the Imperial Ballroom
The city lights blurred past the windows as the town car pulled up to the Marlowe’s grand awning. In the backseat, Lucian sat motionless—composed, polished.
But the space beside him was empty.
No voice teasing his tie. No subtle shift as Kristina adjusted a holster beneath her jacket. No glance that said I see through you before the doors even opened.
Just silence.
Up front, Sebastian drove with quiet focus. Eli tapped through his phone, stealing glances at the mirror. No one spoke. The absence was louder than words.
Ash and Vex followed behind in the second car. They hadn’t said anything when Lucian walked out alone. They didn’t have to.
The car slowed.
“We’re here,” Eli murmured.
Outside, valets stood ready. Event lights glittered across marble steps and velvet ropes. Reporters clustered like sharks, cameras already flashing.
Lucian didn’t move at first.
Then—slowly—he reached for the handle himself, ignoring the valet’s approach.
The driver-side doors opened first. Sebastian stepped out, adjusting his cuffs. Eli followed, sliding his phone into his jacket.
Then Lucian emerged.
He straightened his coat. Shoulders squared. Expression unreadable.
His shoes clicked against pavement like a cue for the world to watch.
Ash and Vex flanked them as they moved—five figures, one quiet absence.
The flashbulbs surged.
“Mr. Sinclair—any comment on tonight’s guest list?”
“Lucian! Who are you wearing?”
“Is the ballroom reserved exclusively for Dominion partners?”
“Lucian! Where’s your bodyguard—the one from the museum? Kristina, right?”
Lucian’s jaw shifted. He didn’t slow.
“Once again, Mr. Sinclair attends solo,” another reporter added, half-laughing. “Statement or habit?”
He gave no answer.
Behind him, Sebastian’s gaze sharpened. Eli’s shoulders tensed. Vex muttered something dark. Ash’s smirk was all blade, no smile.
The red carpet gleamed beneath them.
But Lucian felt only the weight of the space beside him.
The one she used to fill.
Inside the Imperial Ballroom, the atmosphere was all crystal light and polished surfaces, the kind of curated luxury that hummed with money and reputation. A string quartet played near the back wall, and champagne trays floated effortlessly through clusters of suited executives and sequined elites.
Lucian moved through the space like gravity—nodding to familiar faces, shaking hands with power, answering greetings with a tilt of his head or the faintest curve of a smile. The board members were here. Foreign partners. Investors. Politicians in sharp suits who wanted to be seen beside the name Sinclair.
He didn’t need a spotlight. The room adjusted to him automatically.
But it didn’t escape notice that his right side remained untouched. That the woman some had called his shadow was missing.
It didn’t escape Savannah Miller, either.
She spotted him from across the room, her sequined gown shimmering like a deliberate provocation as she moved toward him. Designer heels clicked in a practiced rhythm. Wine in hand. Smile already polished.
And when she reached him, her tone was sweet—just a shade too sharp.
“Well,” she said with a knowing tilt of her head, “no date again, Mr. Sinclair?”
Lucian didn’t reply, not verbally. Just a faint shift in posture. Controlled. Cool.
Savannah stepped closer. Too close.
“You really ought to consider hiring better company,” she added smoothly. “Your last one had… a bit of mystery, I’ll give you that. What was her name? Kristina?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “But clearly not memorable enough to keep.”
And then she reached for his arm, her fingers already halfway to curling around it. “You know, I could always be your date tonight—”
But she didn’t get to finish.
Because another hand reached in—graceful, precise—and wrapped around Lucian’s arm before Savannah could touch him.
Everyone stilled.
Even Lucian.
The pressure of a familiar hand. The sudden warmth against his sleeve. The scent—distinct, clean, unmistakable.
Savannah blinked. “What—?”
Lucian turned his head slightly. Just enough to confirm what the air had already told him.
She didn’t need an invitation. Just a decision.
—To be continued.
