Life as a sinclair : Book 1

The low, distorted fuzz of an old Fleetwood Mac cassette was vibrating off the floorboards, rattling the half-empty cup of cold espresso on my nightstand. I leaned against the open window frame, took a quiet drag of my cigarette, and watched the Florida heat shimmer off the pavement outside.

​I had about ten seconds before the storm hit.

​"Rory! Turn that damn noise down and get down here!"

​I smirked, tapping the ash into a seashell on the sill. Ivory. Right on cue.

​I killed the tape, threw an oversized vintage jacket over my tank top, and wandered down the spiral staircase.

​The Sinclair house was massive, loud, and constantly smelled like coffee and expensive perfume. Down in the kitchen, Emily was practically hyperventilating over her plate, a thick hardcover book tucked under her arm like a weapon.

​"It’s my last first day of high school, Rory," Emily said, her voice dropping into full crisis mode the second she saw me. "What if I peak today? What if this is literally it for me?"

​"You're not peaking, Emily," Jane drawled. She was leaning over the island, meticulously adjusting her silver hoop earrings in the reflection of her phone screen. She didn't even look up. "Besides, I'm wearing vintage Jean Paul Gaultier today, so nobody’s looking at you anyway."

​"Jane, eat your toast," Ivory snapped smoothly. She glided past in a silk robe, script pages tucked under her arm, totally relaxed despite the surrounding madness. She set a plate in front of Jane with military precision before swinging around to look at me. "And Rory—what did I say about smoking in the house?"

​Before I could answer, Ivory snatched the cigarette right out of my fingers, took a slow drag herself, and blew a flawless ring of smoke toward the high ceiling.

​I rolled my eyes. "Unbelievable. You confiscate my vices just to steal them?"

​"I'm the eldest. I get privileges," Ivory said, leaning against the counter. Her eyes narrowed as she took me in. "Did you finish packing your bag for tomorrow? I still don't get why you refused the office at the family firm. You'd have your own floor."

​"And have you watching me all day? No thanks, boss lady," I said, leaning back against the counter and grabbing an apple. "I like my freedom. Corporate design is just to pay for my paint and my gas."

​Ivory opened her mouth to lecture me, but a sharp horn honked twice from the driveway.

​"That's his car!" Emily gasped, her panic instantly evaporating into a brilliant smile. She grabbed her bag and bolted. "Jane, come on!"

​"Tell him if he speeds in my neighborhood, he's walking home!" Ivory yelled after them.

​The heavy front door slammed shut, and the kitchen fell dead silent.

​Ivory stood there watching the empty hallway. The sharp, untouchable perfectionist act slipped for just a second, a small, quiet sigh escaping her chest as she stubbed out the cigarette in the sink.

​I slouched over and bumped my shoulder against hers. "Hey. Breathe, starlet. They're going to school, not a war zone."

​"They're growing up too fast," Ivory muttered, rubbing her temple. "It's annoying."

​Watching the tired line of her shoulders, a sudden wave of quiet grounding hit me.

​We weren't sisters by blood, but we were bound by something way tighter. The four of us were adopted as babies by the Sinclairs, but when Ivory was barely six, our adoptive parents died. Our grandparents took us in, only to pass away too when Ivory was just eleven. Child Protective Services came knocking at the door ready to split four traumatized little girls into four different foster homes.

​Ivory had stood in this exact house at eleven years old and refused to let us go. She rallied our family’s money, hired an army of lawyers, and signed over guardianship paperwork to Aunt Maria—our live-in housekeeper who basically became our unofficial aunt and cover-up adult just so the state couldn't touch us. Ivory had practically raised us herself. We were built out of shared grief, sheer willpower, and an unbreakable promise: nobody splits the Sinclairs. We weren't sisters by blood, but we were sisters by heart.

​"You built a good house, Ivory," I said softly, nudging her again. "Relax."

​I grabbed my keys off the island and flashed her a lazy grin, letting the heavier thoughts drift away. "Anyway, don't wait up for me tonight."

​Ivory raised an eyebrow, instantly snapping back into sister mode. "Another one?"

​"Expensive dinner, five-star entertainment, ghosted by morning," I said, tapping my temple. "You know the drill. Men are for cheap thrills, not long-term contracts."

​"One day, Rory," Ivory warned, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "One day, someone's going to lock you down."

​"He can try," I winked, heading for the front door. "See you later, mom."

​I stepped out into the sticky Florida heat, the ocean breeze catching my hair. I had a date to play with, a new corporate job waiting on Monday, and zero intention of ever letting anyone get close enough to mess with my head.

​Life was perfectly under control.