Chapter 81
2217words
Sinclair Dominion HQ
The shift began so quietly, no one could mark the exact day it happened.
At first, the employees of Sinclair Dominion had only needed to adjust to one surprise: Lucian Sinclair, untouchable heir and CEO, had chosen someone in his inner circle. Kristina was no longer just the silent bodyguard shadowing his steps. He opened doors for her, carried her files when he never would for anyone else, waited for her in elevators with a patience no one had ever seen in him. Whispers spread quickly, but in time, even the sharpest critics conceded to the story: the boss was in love, and whether people approved or not, the lines were clear.
Then, Eli Voss.
He had always been there—second-in-command, Lucian’s right hand, the man trusted to guard his flanks in both boardroom and battlefield. Yet suddenly, his presence around Kristina felt different. People noticed the way he leaned close over her shoulder when reviewing reports, heads bent together in conspiratorial quiet. They noticed how she laughed more easily with him, the way his hand steadied her back when guiding her through crowded corridors, the unspoken familiarity that slipped through in glances too natural to be dismissed as chance.
It wasn’t just professionalism. It wasn’t just camaraderie.
And in an office where perception was currency, it became fodder.
“Have you seen the way Voss looks at her?” whispered one assistant near the elevators.
“He’s braver than I thought,” murmured another. “Or stupider. Does he not realize Mr. Sinclair will kill him when he finds out?”
Speculation spread like wildfire. Some decided Kristina was playing a dangerous game—bold enough to toy with both men. Others whispered Eli was reckless, coveting the woman his own CEO so openly claimed. A few convinced themselves Kristina and Eli were carrying on a secret affair right under Lucian’s nose.
In darker corners, jealousy took root. Women who once dreamed of catching Lucian’s eye now sharpened their envy into barbed whispers about Kristina’s reputation. Men, some resentful of Eli’s growing prominence, muttered that he was using her to climb closer to Sinclair’s throne.
Soon, whispers turned into attempts at intervention.
The first came from a junior executive who fancied himself clever. He requested a private word with Lucian, dressed his concern in loyalty, and hinted that Kristina might not be as faithful as she appeared. He never finished the sentence. Lucian had stared at him in silence, ice-blue eyes unreadable, and dismissed him without a word. The man returned to his desk pale as chalk, his confidence shattered.
The second attempt came days later, from a woman in accounting who thought herself bold. She framed it as concern, implying Eli's closeness was disrespectful—maybe even dangerous. Again, Lucian had listened, cold and still. Again, he said nothing. But the look he gave her as she left ensured she never spoke Kristina’s name again.
That silence was worse than rage.
Because rage could be explained. Silence—acceptance, even—was something no one in the building knew how to interpret.
“If Mr. Sinclair really knows,” someone whispered, “why hasn’t he ended it? Why hasn’t Mr. Voss vanished?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know,” another argued. “Maybe Kristina’s manipulating him.”
But the rumors never reached an answer, because they were built on the wrong premise. Lucian was not blind. He was not deceived. He knew—had always known—and he had already made his peace with it. What baffled the employees was not ignorance, but refusal. He would not explain himself to people who had no right to the truth, would not waste breath on whispers that thrived in the dark.
To the rest of the world, his silence looked like mystery. To him, it was simple: no explanation was owed.
The gossip only deepened the mystery.
To the employees, Eli Voss’ survival was baffling. To them, Kristina’s freedom was dangerous. To them, Lucian’s silence was terrifying. And so the whispers grew teeth: dark predictions that Voss’ days were numbered, that Kristina would eventually fall, that sooner or later Lucian’s composure would give way to blood. The office thrived on speculation, because the truth was too strange to consider.
That strangeness didn’t stay confined to employees, either. It reached higher—into the family itself.
Harold Sinclair had never been one to leave matters to rumor. Unlike Maxim, he was less concerned with appearances and more curious about truths. And so, one quiet afternoon, he arrived at the estate unannounced, cane tapping steadily against the marble floors. His visit was not for business. It was for answers.
Wednesday | February 2, 2011
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Lucian’s Study
Harold Sinclair had never been one to linger in doorways or wait for permission. His cane struck against the marble halls with deliberate rhythm, each tap a declaration that his visit was not social.
When he stepped into the study, he stopped short. By the fire, Lucian sat back in one of the leather armchairs, posture composed but not guarded. Kristina was beside him on the couch, angled slightly toward Eli, who occupied the other end. They weren’t conducting business. They weren’t maintaining distance. They were simply… together. Comfortable, as if the space belonged equally to all three.
For a man who had heard the whispers in the city, it was a striking sight. Not scandal, not secrecy, but something far more deliberate. They weren’t hiding from him. They weren’t hiding at all.
Harold’s eyes narrowed, though his face revealed nothing more. He adjusted the grip on his cane and let the silence linger just long enough for the weight of his observation to settle.
“Close the doors,” Harold said. His voice carried the weight of command, one that had once shaped Lucian’s childhood and still unsettled anyone who heard it.
Kristina rose without hesitation and shut the study doors, the soft click sealing them into a room where no ears but theirs would hear what came next..
“I’ve come for answers,” he began, eyes narrowing on Lucian. “Not from gossip, not from speculation. From you.”
Lucian leaned back in his chair, unreadable. “Then ask.”
The fire popped in the silence that followed. Harold’s gaze shifted briefly to Kristina—her quiet poise at Lucian’s side, the subtle gravity she held in the room—and then to Eli, who did not flinch under the scrutiny. The old man exhaled slowly.
“They say Eli is too close to her,” Harold said. “They say you’ve lost your grip. That you tolerate what no Sinclair before you would. I came to see if there’s truth to it.”
Lucian’s expression did not change. “There is truth. Kristina is mine. Eli stands with her, and I allow it. Their closeness is no weakness, no betrayal. It is what I choose.”
The bluntness startled even Harold, though he did not show it beyond the twitch of his jaw. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of the fire. Then, with a slow nod, the patriarch shifted his line of attack.
“Your birthday approaches,” Harold said, voice measured, as though expecting resistance.
“February sixteenth. Traditionally, you’ve refused any public recognition. I assumed this year would be no different.”
Lucian’s answer came without hesitation. “Sure. I’ll think of the venue. You can invite who you deem necessary.”
Harold blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “You agree?”
“I do,” Lucian said. “But it will not be your spectacle. It will be mine. And they will see precisely what I wish them to see.”
For the first time in the conversation, Harold leaned back in his chair. His sharp eyes flicked again to Kristina, then Eli, then back to Lucian. A rare smile touched the corners of his mouth—not warm, but approving.
“Perhaps you’re more of a Sinclair than I feared,” he murmured.
Kristina’s pulse quickened at the quiet weight of the exchange. Eli remained silent, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though something long anticipated had finally settled.
The study door remained closed. No staff lingered in the hall. And inside that room, grandfather and grandson—and the two who stood at Lucian’s side—acknowledged a new balance of power.
Harold Sinclair rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, leaning heavily on his cane. The firelight flickered across his sharp features, highlighting the lines that had seen decades of Sinclair triumphs and betrayals.
Kristina remained standing, silent, at Lucian’s side, the weight of the day still pressing lightly on her shoulders. Harold’s eyes, usually so piercing, softened slightly as they settled on her.
“Walk me out, will you?” he asked, voice steady, carrying neither command nor hesitation. It was a rare moment in which he treated her as more than just a shadow of the man beside her.
Kristina nodded. She stepped forward, guiding him gently as he began his measured pace down the hall. The estate seemed quieter than usual, staff discreetly giving them space as they passed. Harold’s cane tapped against the marble floor, echoing like a heartbeat through the halls.
“You’ve done well today,” he said after a few steps, not glancing up. “Not everyone could stand so firmly in a room full of men who could shake the air with a single word—and not falter.”
Kristina’s lips pressed into a thin line, neither accepting praise nor deflecting it. She simply walked beside him, careful not to rush his steps.
He glanced briefly at her, his tone softer now. “Lucian… trusts you. He has always trusted you. And Eli…” He nodded toward the study’s door. “Eli has been reliable as long as I’ve known him. You can see that. But this…” Harold’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, as though the weight of the future hung there. “This arrangement you’ve built… I worry. Not for Lucian, not for Voss, but for you. Jealousy and misunderstanding will come. Men, even good men, are prone to it. It could ruin them both… and most of all, it could harm you.”
Kristina’s gaze dropped. She had anticipated this from him — the caution, the concern beneath the blunt words.
“I understand,” she said quietly, her voice measured. “I’ve already accepted it. And I’ve chosen my steps carefully.”
Harold studied her for a long moment, his eyes weighing her, testing her, before he allowed a faint nod of approval. “Good. Keep your resolve. Your loyalty will be tested more than mine ever was, but I trust you’ll hold the line. And I suspect,” he added, his voice softer now, “you’ll keep them steady… in ways they might never admit they need.”
They reached the grand front doors. The winter light spilled across the polished stone, brushing the edges of the ornate carvings that had survived generations. Harold paused, resting his hand on the doorframe, and for a moment, the old patriarch seemed… smaller. Not weakened, but human.
“Remember this,” he said quietly, “your strength is not in the fire you face, but in the calm you carry through it. Protect them. Protect yourself.”
Kristina inclined her head. “I will.”
The staff opened the car door as Harold settled inside. He gave her one last look — not of judgment, not of curiosity, but of acknowledgment. Then the car pulled away, leaving Kristina standing at the threshold, the winter air brushing her face. The weight of the day lingered, but so did a rare steadiness, a quiet understanding that she had earned her place.
Kristina stepped back through the study doors, her boots whispering against the polished wood. Lucian was seated at the desk, hands folded, eyes lifting just enough to acknowledge her return. Eli stood near the window, shoulders squared but tense, as if every passing second measured his patience and loyalty.
For a moment, the three of them simply regarded one another, the silence carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts. Kristina allowed herself a slow exhale, releasing the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Everything said?” Lucian asked, voice low, controlled.
Kristina inclined her head. “He trusts us. But he warned—” She paused, considering the weight of Harold’s caution. “He warned that the arrangement will be tested. That jealousy could come. That it could harm all of us, especially me.”
Eli gave a small nod, jaw tight. “Noted,” he said quietly, though his eyes flicked toward Lucian, as if seeking reassurance that they were prepared to face it together.
Lucian leaned back slightly, one hand brushing over the papers on his desk. His gaze softened, just a fraction, as he looked at Kristina. “Let them try. Nothing will break this—nothing worth breaking for.”
Kristina let her eyes meet Eli’s for a moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They had all seen the hints of office whispers, felt the subtle tension in the halls. Yet here, in this room, there was clarity: loyalty, trust, and the unspoken promise that they would protect one another.
“Let’s prepare,” Lucian said finally, standing. “February sixteenth will be exactly what it should be. No compromises. No distractions. Only what needs to be seen… and what needs to be kept between us.”
The fire crackled softly, but none of them moved. Harold’s shadow still lingered in the study, his words a reminder that what bound them together could one day be the very thing that tore them apart.
Whispers may twist the story, but silence defines the truth.
—To be continued.
