Jean Sinclair Novels & Stories

Besides it’s not like she planned going here from the very start. “She’s wonderful wasn’t she? She really pulled the audience in.” Ms. Finnegan complimented and Catherine thought that this instructor had forgotten the she had heard all the nonsense Ms. Finnegan spouted at Lyra. “Sure, it didn’t seem you liked her during your class.” Catherine said unamused and Ms. Finnegan nervously laugh at Catherine’s comment. Catherine was sure that Ms. Finnegan is trying to be all sweet and all because her mother is a renowned Prima Ballerina and not only that but her mother has a lot of connection.

“So let’s not pretend this evening hasn’t shifted.” She glanced at Damien briefly as he stood at the back unmoving. “I’ve known Damien Sinclair since I was twenty-one years old. And I’ve seen him in every shade a man can be. Cold. Brilliant. Relentless. And yes, in his younger years, reckless.” Murmurs stirred. Phones hovered. “But I’ve also seen him do what very few men with power ever bother to do.” She let the pause stretch. “Evolve. This photo is not a revelation. It’s a relic. A desperate attempt to weaponize a past he doesn’t deny. But I stand here tonight beside him, not because he’s perfect, but because he fought like hell to be better than he was.”

The kind of paper that got written in boardrooms and buried deep. My name sat in the third paragraph. “PRIMARY LEVERAGE TARGET: Amara Sinclair (née Reed). Wife of CEO, Sinclair Group. STATUS: postpartum, career-inactive, socially isolated from prior professional network. METHODOLOGY: domestic displacement. OPTIMAL ENTRY POINT: postpartum period, subject most isolated, least defended. TIMELINE: Q3.” I read it once. My throat closed. Then again, and the room went still. They had studied me—the sleepless nights, the months of running a household while barely holding myself together, the strange grief of living in a body that no longer felt like mine, and they'd marked every weakness as opportun

Audrey Sinclair sat at her desk, staring at the glowing screen of her laptop. The article's headline screamed back at her: "Sinclair Heiress Returns Amid Mental Health Concerns: Is Audrey Sinclair Fit to Lead?" Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the comments. People were calling her unstable, broken, a risk to the whole damn company. She rubbed her thumb along the edge of her wrist, right over that old scar, fighting the sting in her eyes.

Hearing Mrs Harrison angry voice, she went out of the room. Sinclair was the first person she saw amongst every other person there. As always Sinclair was dressed perfectly and he exuded a certain kind of charisma and charm in the clothes he was putting on. Sinclair smiled and cheered the photography crew but when he saw her from a distance, his smile disappeared and changed to an angry look.

Or Sinclair. Holy shit.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if he had put me off dates for a while. I picked up my fork, ready to dig into my second slice of cake. The diner we were in was a cute place located on the corner of a busy street. Sixties themed-white and pale pink interior. The classic checkerboard flooring. It was our first time trying it and it was already becoming a favourite. Silvana sighed, reaching over the table to rest her hand on mine. Her nails were painted a bright red, matching the colour of her hair. She had a concerned expression on her face when she spoke again, "You have no idea how sorry I am."

Someone whispered beside us as the owner of the heels came into clear view. Elegant black suit, long dark hair falling perfectly over her shoulders without a single strand out of place, tall heels clicking confidently against the floor. And God, that aura. It was so cold and commanding that even the teachers around looked away as she passed. Maeve’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. “Oh, no,” she muttered under her breath. “Mrs Sinclair.” Tyler’s Mom.

••~~MADDISON~~•• I didn’t plan to end up here. But there I was, sitting in the icy glass lobby of The Billionaire Escort house, legs tapping nervously. I’d run straight from Chad’s humiliation. No bags. No charger. Just my cracked phone and the card. “You’ve got something rare, darling.” Ms. Sinclair had said, with a little smirk. Call that number when you’re ready to stop struggling. Everyone who worked downtown café shifts had heard the whispers. About Mrs. Sinclair. About the girls who vanished and showed up months later in Chanel.

She said coldly, "I had helped you before, Jean. Why didn't you tell me earlier? And it was exposed today, of all days. "Do you know that everyone in Henkel is laughing at me right now?" Jean looked at her and said, "I knew of their plan since my mother's birthday. But would you have believed me if I told you about it back then?" Her question silenced Sydney. Jean retracted her gaze and said, "Joyce is a calculative person, and Glenn is a good actor. I'm Joyce's sister. I know her best. She even wants to get rid of me. Do you think you can escape from her schemes?