Chapter 2: Sky High and Short Memories

The driver is downstairs, Rory!" Ivory’s voice echoed down the hall, sharp and loud enough to cut through the quiet hum of the early morning.

​I hauled my oversized leather duffel over my shoulder, taking one last look at my bedroom before heading down the stairs. Outside the front gates, a sleek black SUV was idling, complete with a personal chauffeur waiting to grab my luggage.

​Ivory stood in the foyer, already in full production-mode, holding her phone in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. Beside her acting career, she ran her own high-end cosmetics line, which meant she spent half her life managing spreadsheets and the other half buying out luxury services just because she could.

​"I still think you should have taken the family jet," Ivory said, eyeing my casual outfit—a worn vintage tee, dark cargo pants, and my favorite beat-up sneakers—with mild disapproval. "First class on a commercial flight is fine, but the private jet gets you into Chicago without the airport circus."

​"First class is more than enough, starlet," I smiled, dropping my duffel near the door. "You're doing too much."

​"I'm doing what a big sister does," she countered smoothly, though her eyes softened. "Besides, there are a few perks to being a Sinclair. Might as well use them."

​I couldn't even argue with that. Being part of a wealthy family—and having a ridiculously successful sister who basically funded our lives—had its upsides. Ivory had already arranged my high-rise loft in downtown Chicago, packed half my stuff ahead of time, and scheduled a private car to pick me up at O'Hare.

​"I'm going to miss you, boss lady," I said, stepping in to wrap my arms around her.

​Ivory hugged me back tight, her usual perfectionist armor melting away for a split second. "Call me the second you land. And don't be late for your first day at the firm tomorrow."

​By the time the plane hit cruising altitude, I was stretched out in my oversized first-class seat, sipping champagne and watching the clouds roll by. Chicago was a one-hour time difference back from Florida, which meant I had plenty of time to land, check into my new loft, and get my bearings before starting my job at the new firm.

​As the sky turned a deep blue outside my window, my mind drifted back to last night.

​The date had been absolute perfection. The guy—a sharp-jawed, ridiculously wealthy type with broad shoulders and a mouth that knew exactly what to say—had taken me to an ridiculously expensive rooftop restaurant in St. Augustine. He had talked a good game, bought top-shelf wine, and looked at me like I was the only girl in the room.

​And the after-party in the back of his sports car? Unbelievable. Fast, intense, and completely unhinged.

​My phone buzzed on the armrest, pulling me out of my head. I picked it up and looked at the screen.

​Unknown Number: I’m already thinking about last night. When am I seeing you again?

​A lazy smirk pulled at my lips. He was sweet, really. But rules were rules.

​Without typing a single letter back, I tapped his contact, hit Block, and locked my phone.

​I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, closing my eyes with a satisfied grin. I’d have to rate him top five out of all the guys I’d hooked up with this year. Easily. He was good with his hands, better with his mouth, and entirely a memory now.

​Chicago was waiting, a new corporate job was on the horizon, and my freedom was still 100% intact.

My new Chicago loft was sleek, modern, and completely dialed-in—courtesy of Ivory’s flawless taste—but I didn't have time to admire the skyline. It was 7:00 AM, and I had my first day at Vanguard Group looming over me.

​I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my blonde hair into a tight, slicked-back bun. Corporate America wasn't exactly known for embracing wild street artists, so I played the part. Clean makeup, crisp white button-down, black tailored trousers.

​Then came the real work: my tattoos. I grabbed a heavy-duty concealer brush, carefully dabbing thick coverage over the fine-line ink creeping up my neck and wrist. I stared at my reflection, shaking my head. I hated hiding who I was, but I needed this job to stand on my own two feet.

​Thirty minutes later, I walked into the soaring glass lobby of Vanguard. The place screamed high-stakes wealth and zero room for error.

​"Good morning, welcome to Vanguard," the receptionist smiled. "Name?"

​"Rory Sinclair," I said, smoothing down my blazer.

​She checked her screen and pointed toward a corner elevator. "Head up to the twelfth floor. Ask for Mr. Vance, the senior floor manager—he’s giving the tour for today’s new hires."

​When the elevator doors opened on the twelfth floor, a guy in an expensive suit holding a tablet walked right up to me.

​"Rory Sinclair?" he asked.

​"That’s me. Good morning," I replied politely.

​His eyes lit up with instant recognition. "Wait—Rory Sinclair? As in one of the Sinclair sisters? Ivory Sinclair’s sister? Man, I am a huge fan of her work! Her last film was incredible, and my wife uses her makeup line every single day."

​I forced a tight, polite smile, the familiar sting of mild irritation settling into my chest. "Thank you. I'll be sure to tell her you said so."

​This was exactly why I hadn't wanted to work at the family firm. As much as I loved Ivory—and God knew I respected everything she had done, how hard she had worked to build her empire, make money, and keep our family alive—living in her shadow was exhausting. Throughout high school and college, I was never just Rory. I was always "Ivory Sinclair's little sister." I couldn't exactly complain about having a wildly successful family, but I desperately wanted a portfolio built entirely on my own merit.

​"Right this way to your desk," Mr. Vance said, leading me down a hall of cubicles. "Set your things down, but don't get too comfortable. In five minutes, all new hires are expected in the executive boardroom. The Managing Director personally welcomes every new employee."

​"Great. Thanks," I said, sitting at my desk.

​I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, already regretting this whole thing. I hated corporate structure. I hated rigid hours. Why had I agreed to a nine-to-five again?

​I sighed, grabbed my notepad, and walked down the hall toward the glass boardroom.

​About eight other new hires were already seated around the long, polished mahogany table, talking in hushed, nervous tones. I took a seat near the middle, tapping my pen against my leg, just waiting for whatever boring fifty-year-old corporate suit was about to give us a canned welcome speech.

​Then the heavy oak doors swung open.

​A man stepped inside. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark curly hair framing a ridiculously sharp jawline and piercing green eyes that commanded the entire room. He wore an immaculate charcoal suit that cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.

​My heart didn't just drop—it completely bottomed out.

​Oh my days. No. No, no, no.

​What were the absolute, statistically impossible chances?

​It was him. It was Billy Logan. The guy from Florida. The guy from the rooftop restaurant. The guy whose sports car I had been in on Saturday night. The guy I had blocked on my phone literally two hours ago on my way to the loft.

​Panic flared white-hot under my skin. I immediately looked down at my notepad, bending my head low, praying my slicked-back bun and corporate clothes made me look like a totally different person.

​"Welcome to Vanguard," Billy's voice echoed across the glass walls—deep, smooth, and painfully familiar. "We hold our team to absolute perfection here..."

​He started walking down the row, giving a firm, professional handshake to each new hire. Step by step, his shoes clicked closer to my chair.

​My pulse was hammering in my throat. When he finally stopped right in front of my seat, I kept my face turned slightly to the side, extending a stiff, trembling hand without making eye contact.

​"Welcome to the team," he said, taking my hand.

​His grip was warm, firm, and familiar. But when I didn't turn to face him, he paused.

​"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

​I had no choice. I slowly raised my head and looked directly into those sharp green eyes.

​I saw the exact millisecond recognition hit him. A flash of pure, unadulterated shock rippled across his flawless features. His eyes widened slightly, his grip on my hand tightening for a fraction of a second before his corporate mask snapped right back into place.

​He cleared his throat, his jaw clenching tightly. "Welcome... Miss Sinclair."

​The second he let go of my hand, I didn't wait for the meeting to end. I practically bolted out of the glass doors, my heart slamming against my ribs as I rushed straight toward the breakroom water dispenser.

​I grabbed a paper cup, my hands shaking so bad the water splashed over the rim.

​This is bad, I thought, staring wildly at my reflection in the stainless steel fridge. This is really, really bad.