FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH JULIAN SINCLAIR

ADRIANA CHEN

I never knew how fucked up I was until I met him. I always saw myself as the good girl. The girl everyone pointed at when they needed an example of discipline, restraint, and control. The kind of girl teachers trusted without checking twice, the kind parents used as a standard when scolding their own children.

In senior high, I even received an award for the most disciplined girl in school. People clapped harder than necessary, as if I was proof that goodness could be measured and rewarded. I didn't think much of it then. I even believed it myself.

That's not until I met the devil of Sinclair the one man I should have stayed away from. The one sin more forbidden than forbidden itself. And I accepted it. Hell, I became devoted to committing it. My greatest sin. Julian Sinclair.

What began as a normal ceremony, me meeting my boyfriend Andrew Sinclair's family. He had mentioned his family, of course. In Royal City, the Sinclair name held power and influence. But I hadn't connected the dots. If you're thinking I fell for Andrew for money, you've entirely misread me.

The truth is far more embarrassing. Even my friends think it's stupid. I fell for Andrew Sinclair because he saved a kitten. A small, trembling thing on the edge of a busy road, and there he was, this tall, breathtakingly handsome boy crouched down in his pristine white shirt, coaxing it to safety. My heart stuttered in a way it had never done before. Then I bumped into him at Royal University. Then again when he was out with his boys. And again, after that, in ways I stopped being able to count.

Fate, I told myself. We shared so much, ambitions, humour, late-night conversations that stretched long past midnight. He wanted to be a lawyer. He was my dream made real: tall, warm, driven, kind. He did mention an adoptive father, some powerful figure in the city. I waved it off. What did it matter?

✦ ✦ ✦

A year later, I remember it clearly. The 23rd of August. He got down on one knee and I said yes before he'd finished the question. I had it all mapped out in my head, the wedding, the honeymoon, two or three children, a life so beautiful it looked like something out of a Sunday film. I had built us a future and furnished every room of it.

It was on a Friday night when his car pulled to a slow stop before iron gates so grand they seemed less like an entrance and more like a declaration. Beyond them, the Sinclair mansion rose against the evening sky a monolith of pale stone and arched windows lit from within, manicured hedges flanking a driveway that stretched further. My breath left my body harder with an explosion.

"OMG babe," I breathed, voice barely holding together, "you are the son of Benjamin Sinclair — the Sinclair Tycoon?"

Andrew glanced at me with that easy, unbothered smile of his, as though we'd just pulled up to a moderately nice restaurant. "What's wrong? I told you he was my stepfather."

"I didn't know you meant the Sinclair!!"

He shook his head, amused in a way that made me want to throttle him gently.

Four men appeared before we had fully stepped out, moving in seamless formation, their uniforms impeccable. 

"Welcome home, young master and young miss!" they called in near-perfect unison. The words landed against my chest like a small, velvet shock. Young miss. I had never been addressed that way in my life. My body didn't know what to do with it heat rose to my cheeks and my fingers curled nervously at my sides.

The butler, introduced as Mr. Evans Grey, a silver-haired man led us inside. My one consuming fear was my future mother-in-law. The dramas had prepared me for cold eyes and clipped disapproval. But Victoria Sinclair was warmth itself, and Mr. Benjamin received me with a handshake that felt like welcome. The evening softened. Laughter moved around the table. I almost exhaled.

Then Mr. Grey reappeared at the edge of the room. His expression had shifted, still composed, but carrying the particular weight of a man delivering news that rearranges the atmosphere of a room. He stepped close to Benjamin and said, in a low, measured voice: "Sir. The young master has arrived."

I had forgotten about him entirely. Andrew was the adopted son, absorbed into the Sinclair family after his mother's marriage, which was precisely why he wasn’t that known. Julian Sinclair was a different species of wealthy. Not just his father’s wealth, his mother’s side was also rich money. He had his own brand before most people had career plans, and the Kingsley Casino was Royal City's largest casino.

Julian Sinclair made his entrance, wearing a sleek, tailored suit in deep gunmetal. The jacket was structured, with sharp lapels and no pocket square. Beneath it, a charcoal silk shirt, the top button undone. Dark trousers, perfectly pressed, broke cleanly over shoes with no tie.

He didn't greet us neither did he acknowledged the parents. He simply crossed the room at his own pace, lowered himself into the chair at the far end of the table and reached into his breast pocket for a cigar.

He exhaled slowly, a curl of grey smoke rising between us, and only then did he look. First at Andrew and then at me.

"Such an important occasion," he said, "and I wasn't invited." He took another slow pull of the cigar, let the silence stretch a beat too long, then the edge of his mouth curved not quite a smile, not quite anything kind. "No matter. I brought gifts."