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Chapter 22
publish date:
2026-10-02 21:23:46
Latest chapter
Life as a sinclair : Book 1 Chapter 22
Rory’s POVThe next morning, my desk was a disaster zone of physical client files, open digital spreadsheets, and half-finished design specs. But no matter how hard I tried to force my brain to focus on work, Sam’s voice kept echoing in my head.He’s an addict. A total drug addict.I sat back in my chair, staring blindly at my computer screen. When I first packed my bags and came to Chicago, searching for my biological parents had felt like a distant, almost adventurous concept. I thought I'd find some neat, straightforward story to fill in the missing pieces of myself. I never expected it to be this heavy. This complicated.Looking back at last night, I could see so much of myself in Sam—the artistic streak, the restless energy, the way she spoke without a filter. I was practically eighty percent sure Sam was my birth mother.But where did that leave me? How could I just drop a bombshell like that on her? How would Diana feel if she found out her new co-worker was actually her h
Life as a sinclair : Book 1 Chapter 21
Rory’s POVThe moment the taxi pulled up to my apartment building, I rushed upstairs with Billy's blush peonies tucked securely against my chest.Every single time Billy gave me flowers—which had only happened twice so far—I felt this overwhelming, sentimental urge to preserve them. To me, it wasn't just about keeping pretty petals; it was about holding onto tangible memories of every date we went on.I sat at my kitchen table, carefully plucking the soft pink petals one by one. I laid them out on a sheet of parchment paper, pressed them flat, and gently transferred them into a velvet-lined wooden keepsake box I kept hidden under my bed. There they would dry safely, preserving the exact memory of tonight.After tucking the box back into its hiding spot, I changed out of my dinner dress into a casual knit sweater and jeans so Marcus and Diana wouldn't suspect I had been out with anyone else. Then, I grabbed a bag of fancy artisanal pretzels from my pantry and caught another taxi ov
Life as a sinclair : Book 1 Chapter 20
Billy’s POV I sat in Carter’s modern living room, staring down at the low glass table where two ice-filled glasses rested untouched. The heavy silence between us was cut only by the faint hum of the city outside. I had just finished telling him everything Dr. Harrison laid out at the clinic—the spiking toxicity levels, the rapid organ decline, and the non-negotiable ultimatum for a liver transplant. Carter stared at me, his usual carefree smirk completely wiped clean. "Billy, you need to tell your parents. You need to tell your mom, precisely, right now. Today." "No," I said firmly, leaning back and rubbing my face with both hands. "I told you, Carter, I don't want them involved. You know my father. You know what he’s capable of when he wants something fixed. He could literally bribe a hospital board, manipulate the registry, or practically kidnap someone to steal their liver off the record. I am not letting an innocent person suffer or go down for me." "So what's the altern
Life as a sinclair : Book 1 Chapter 19
Rory’s POVI sat on the edge of my apartment deck, wrapped in an oversized knit sweater with a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream balanced on my knees. Below me, the late-night Chicago skyline glittered like a constellation of cold, sharp diamonds.The submission for the Chicago Rising Artists Initiative was officially sent, but now my mind was spiraling into a completely different panic. What if I actually make it through the first filter? What piece am I going to present?It had to be big. It had to be unforgettable. But no matter how many times I tilted my head or stared into the dark city breeze, zero ideas came to me. Should I do a massive oil canvas? A charcoal series? Should I try modeling clay or venture into pottery?"Ugh, come on, Rory, think," I muttered, taking a massive bite of cold ice cream and rolling my head back against the lounge chair.Before my internal crisis could deepen, the laptop resting on the outdoor coffee table rang with a sharp, familiar chime. I
Life as a sinclair : Book 1 Chapter 18
Rory’s POVWhen I woke up the next morning, the space beside me on the studio couch was cold and empty.I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, expecting Billy to have slipped away quietly like he usually did. But when I walked into the kitchenette, my jaw practically dropped. Sitting on the counter under a silver cover was a fresh breakfast spread—warm pastries, sliced fruit, and a cup of coffee resting inside an insulated tumbler.A small, genuine laugh escaped my lips as I took a bite of a croissant. Is this guy a robot or something? Every single time I thought I had him figured out, he pulled another move that completely blew my expectations out of the water.As I ate, my mind drifted back to last night.Billy thought I was fast asleep when he snuck out to his car and picked up that late-night phone call, but the truth was, I was a light sleeper. The second he moved off the couch, I was awake—I just stayed still, not wanting to make things awkward. I had overheard him talki
Life as a sinclair : Book 1 Chapter 17
Rory’s POV I sat on the wooden stool in the center of my studio, a blank canvas staring right back at me on the easel. I’d been painting for twenty-four years, practically since I could hold a brush. I’d done everything from whimsical children’s pieces to heavy abstract oil paintings, and I was desperate to start expanding. Right now, I was supplying small collections to a local gallery in the village, but my goal was to get my work into major galleries all across Chicago. I even caught myself daydreaming about making it into the annual winter art auction—the kind where ultra-wealthy collectors drop hundreds of thousands of dollars on pieces that originally cost a fraction of that. The problem? I couldn't paint a single line. I held my paintbrush frozen in mid-air, waiting for a spark, a vision, anything. Nothing came. My brain was completely blank. "Why do you have zero inspiration today?" I muttered to myself, dropping the brush into a jar of turp with an irritated sigh.
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