Chapter 85
2121words
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Lucian’s Study
The folders landed on the table with a soft thud. Three, stacked neatly, untouched. Eli’s eyes tracked them, though he made no move.
“Not contracts,” Maren Hollis said. “Questions waiting for answers.”
He almost laughed at that. Answers weren’t the problem. He had too many. None of them felt right to say aloud.
Lucian sat straight-backed across from Maren, the embodiment of composure. Kristina at Eli’s side didn’t flinch either, her hands folded, her gaze unwavering. They looked as though they belonged in this room, as though permanence was something they could claim without hesitation.
Eli’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t shake the thought that he didn’t.
Maren’s words cut cleanly, practiced but sharp. “I’ve represented men with empires, families with dynasties, names meant to outlive bones.” She tapped the folders once. “Paper is cruel that way—it forgets what isn’t written.”
Lucian’s voice followed, even, deliberate. “The estate. The trusts. The companies. Everything tied to Sinclair. But it won’t remain mine alone.”
The words hit harder than Eli expected. A promise disguised as a declaration. Ownership—equal ownership.
He kept still, letting silence cover the flicker of surprise that crossed his face. His hand twitched against his knee, then stilled again. Later, he told himself. He’d speak later.
Maren’s pen moved, her verdict as simple as it was absolute. “Then today, we define what equal means.”
Equal. The word pressed against him, heavier than any contract could.
Maren set her pen down, the sound sharp against the wood. “Then let’s begin with the simplest question.”
Her eyes moved to Lucian first, as if the answer were already obvious. “What does equal mean to you?”
“Shared,” Lucian said without hesitation. “Authority. Burden. Future. If I sign my name, theirs will stand beside it. If I fall, they inherit not scraps, but the whole.”
Maren’s gaze lingered a moment before shifting to Kristina. “And for you?”
Kristina didn’t look away. “That I stand with them, not behind. That no one can erase me because paper failed to say I was there.”
The pen scratched across the page, recording it. Then Maren’s eyes turned last to Eli. He felt the weight before she spoke.
“And you?”
Eli’s hand flexed once against his knee, the word lodged in his throat. Equal. Easy to say. Impossible to mean. Beside Lucian’s holdings, beside Kristina’s history, what did he bring that a lawyer could write down? Hours? Loyalty? His own signature barely worth the ink it used.
Silence stretched. He almost let it stay there, safe, heavy, unspoken. But Lucian’s presence was at his side—steady, unyielding—and Kristina’s hand brushed his, the faintest touch, as if reminding him he already belonged.
Eli exhaled slowly. His voice was quieter than theirs, but it held. “That I can carry them too,” he said. “Not the money. Not the name. But everything else. Whatever it costs.”
The words sat raw on the table, unpolished, but real.
Maren’s pen moved again. “Then we’ll put it in writing.”
Her pen paused, her gaze sharpening as it fixed on Eli. “Carry them,” she repeated, her tone even. “That’s sentiment. Sentiment doesn’t hold up in court. If we’re drafting, I need you to tell me what that means on paper.”
Eli’s throat tightened. He almost wished she’d just left it as it was. But her eyes—measured, expectant—left no place to retreat.
Lucian sat silent beside him, offering no rescue, though his hand stilled on the armrest as if ready to move. Kristina’s fingers shifted, brushing lightly against the fabric of Eli’s sleeve, but she didn’t speak. This was his.
He cleared his throat, but it didn’t steady him. “It means… if they’re incapacitated, I have the right to decide for them. Medical. Personal.” His voice faltered once, catching at the edge. “I don’t stand outside the room waiting for someone else to tell me what’s happening.”
Maren gave a small nod. “Health directives. Durable power of attorney.” She made a note. “Go on.”
Eli’s jaw worked. “If one of them dies—” the word broke raw in his throat, thin and sharp before he forced it steady again, “—then what’s theirs doesn’t scatter to courts or families who’d rather pretend I don’t exist. It stays with us. With me. With the one left standing.”
Kristina’s hand closed over her knee, knuckles whitening as she kept herself from interrupting. Lucian’s gaze flicked toward Eli, sharp but unreadable, though the line of his shoulders had drawn tight.
“Wills. Survivorship,” Maren murmured, her pen quick across the page.
Eli leaned forward now, and though his words carried more weight, the crack lingered beneath them, refusing to smooth over. “And if it’s me… then they’re protected. Whatever I have, whatever I’ve worked for—it’s theirs. Even if it’s small next to Lucian’s, it’s theirs by right, not charity.”
The silence that followed was thick, weighted, but not empty.
Maren looked up at last, her expression unreadable. “That,” she said quietly, “can be written.”
Maren’s gaze shifted, deliberate, until it landed on Kristina. “And you?” she asked. “What does binding mean for you? Not in sentiment. On record.”
Kristina’s fingers pressed lightly together in her lap. She didn’t look away, not from Maren, not from the weight of the question. But she didn’t answer right away either.
Silence worked itself into the room, as if everyone else had leaned back to make space for her reply. Lucian’s hand rested, steady, against the arm of his chair. Eli’s stillness beside her carried a different gravity—he was holding himself too tightly, as though releasing even an inch might unravel him.
Kristina drew in a breath. “Names,” she said finally. Her voice was even, but low. “Names in places where they can’t be crossed out. Not hidden. Not temporary. Written beside theirs, not beneath.”
Something sharp flickered in her eyes as she spoke, a kind of defiance that didn’t need to be raised louder to be heard.
Maren tapped the top folder once. “Titles. Trust deeds. Guardianship papers. That’s how it translates here. No court, no family, no adversary could challenge it, if it’s written properly.”
Kristina nodded, once. Her gaze didn’t move from the table, though her words carried with clarity. “Then write it. Equal means no one can erase me.”
Lucian’s posture didn’t shift, but the flicker in his expression revealed what her words had struck—he hadn’t realized until now how deeply she feared being erased.
Eli turned slightly toward her, the tension in his chest pulling tighter, sharper. He’d thought permanence was his struggle. But now, hearing her demand the same thing in different words, he felt the edges of his own fear mirrored back at him.
Maren wrote, her pen moving with precision. “Then it’s settled,” she said. “Equal isn’t just principle—it’s protection.”
The folders remained unopened, but the room felt as though something irreversible had already been signed.
Maren let the silence hold, her pen hovering as if to honor what had just been spoken. Then, with a subtle shift of her chair, she redirected the weight of the room.
“Property is one matter,” she said evenly. “But an estate like this—” her hand brushed the unopened folders, “—it doesn’t end at land and walls. It extends into paper. Shares. Contracts. Boards. Sinclair Dominion. The companies beneath it.” Her eyes found Lucian. “Do you intend the same division there? Equal authority. Equal vote.”
Lucian answered without pause, his tone firm. “Yes.”
Her gaze slid to Eli. “And you? Equal authority is more than profit. It carries liability. Risk. Exposure if the board fails or the market turns. Do you stand in that too?”
Eli’s hand flexed once against his knee, but he held her stare. “If it’s equal, then yes.”
Kristina’s voice followed, steady, unyielding. “Then it’s all of us. Otherwise none of it matters.”
Maren wrote quickly, then stopped, lifting her eyes to Kristina again. The pause was deliberate, the pivot precise.
“One last matter,” she said. “Custodial rights. If children enter this household in the future—” she let the word rest a beat, heavier than contracts, “—what provisions hold? Who decides? Who bears that responsibility?”
Maren’s words hung there, heavier than any clause. The room stayed still, waiting.
Kristina was the first to break it. Her voice carried no hesitation. “Any child of mine is theirs. Both of them. No court or family decides that for me.”
Lucian’s jaw shifted, but his tone was steady, almost deliberate. “California law would put the presumption on me. But I’ll sign consent the moment it’s needed. Adoption, guardianship, whatever makes it clear. Paper will match the truth.”
Eli’s throat worked, the words sticking until he forced them through.
“The law doesn’t make them mine. But when the time comes, I’ll fight until it admits what’s already true.”
Maren gave the smallest nod, her pen scratching once more across the page. “Then we’ll put the framework in place. When that day comes, no one will be able to challenge what you’ve already chosen.”
The silence that followed was different now—not empty, not waiting, but charged with something unspoken.
Maren’s pen rested flat across the folder. For the first time since she’d entered, her tone softened—not less precise, but carrying weight beyond law.
“There is one more matter,” she said. “It isn’t sentiment. It isn’t optional. California law won’t recognize the three of you equally. To secure the protections you’ve asked for—inheritance, authority, custody—someone must be married. On record.”
The silence that followed was different from the others—sharper, more personal.
Lucian’s eyes shifted to Kristina, then flicked once toward Eli, before returning to Maren. He didn’t speak.
Maren went on, measured but unyielding. “The most viable arrangement is this: Kristina and Lucian marry, legally. That secures spousal rights—inheritance, medical authority, parental presumption. Eli can be bound through domestic partnership agreements, trusts, and later, adoption proceedings. Not equal in the eyes of the state. But secured in every way the law allows.”
Her gaze lifted at last, steady across all three of them. “If you want permanence, this is the paper that will hold it.”
The words landed like a stone between them.
Kristina’s brows knit, the protest sharp in her voice before she could stop it. “That’s not fair.” Her hand tightened on Eli’s without thought. “Why should he be the one written out, when he’s just as much—” She broke off, her chest rising with the weight of it. “Just as much as Lucian.”
The air trembled with her anger, low but fierce.
Eli’s thumb brushed against her palm, grounding her. “Kris,” he said softly. “It isn’t about choosing. Not between us. It’s just… law written by people who’ve never had to imagine us.”
Her head turned toward him, unwilling to let go. “But it feels like a choice. On paper, it looks like one.”
Lucian leaned forward then, his voice low, deliberate. “It will look like one. But that paper doesn’t touch what we are. You both know that.” He paused, his eyes holding hers. “If the only way to guard what we’ve built is by letting the state call it something smaller, then I’ll sign their version. But we will know the truth.”
Kristina’s lips pressed into a hard line. She shook her head, rising suddenly from her chair. “No.” Her voice trembled with the refusal, anger and grief tangled together. “I won’t sit here and pretend it isn’t.”
Before either man could answer, she turned sharply and stormed from the study, the door swinging shut behind her.
“Kristina—” Eli was already half out of his chair, his voice chasing her, but she didn’t stop. He hesitated only long enough to glance at Lucian, then hurried after her.
The silence left behind was heavy, threaded with something rawer than the legal papers on the table could hold.
Lucian stayed seated, his gaze on the closed door. At length, he drew in a quiet breath and looked at Maren. “Is it truly necessary? The marriage?”
Maren’s reply was measured, but without hesitation. “Yes. Without it, her standing—and Eli’s—remains vulnerable. If anything were to happen to you, Lucian, the board, the courts, even the state could contest her authority. They could question Eli’s role entirely. A legal marriage secures the presumption of spousal rights. Without that, you leave room for challenge.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened, but he gave a single, grave nod. His voice, when it came, was low. “Then we’ll do it. Even if it breaks her heart for a while.”
Maren closed the folder with deliberate care. “Better her heart bends under paper than her future shatters without it.”
The study fell quiet again, this time with the weight of inevitability.
Paper can bind, but never fully define what’s already chosen.
—To be continued.
