"The door clattered after her, punctuating the tense silence that hung in the air. Her nose flared in anger, each sharp intake of breath accompanied by frustration as she grappled with a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to drown her. The stupid boy knew nothing more than sucking off after his brother. But she had done her own part in raising him well. Where could she have gone wrong?
She never had the opportunities he had; the wealth, the presence of parents. She had lost the last of hers when she was fifteen and had been left to fend for herself.
After scraping by on the very meager inheritance her dying father had left behind, she found herself performing as an entertainer at a restaurant, entertaining its patrons. Many of her guests were men who sought refuge from the day's toils, drowning all the stress from the day's job in alcohol. And many times, things did get rowdy with many of them getting drunk and sometimes violent. Even though it was never in her job prescription to sexually entertain her guests, one of them had forced himself on her and had his way, leaving her violated and pregnant.
Two weeks after the unfortunate incident, she found herself at the corner of the restaurant, bawling her eyes out, afraid, scared, and full of uncertainty. Abortion was not an option. What if she lost her life in the process?
How could she afford to raise a child when she could barely afford to feed herself?
A comforting hand rested on her shoulder, offering solace in the darkness. His voice was a balm to her frayed nerves.
"Is anything the matter?"
She opened her mouth but no words seemed ready to make an entrance out of it.
"Everything will be fine, ok?"
"Who was this enigmatic man who exuded such reassurance?" She hadn't felt this sense of safety in the presence of a man in ages.
He seemed to assume that her problem was money as the hand he dipped in his pocket squeezed a wad of notes into her own hands.
As she watched his figure retreat into the darkness, she remained flabbergasted.
"How could a man be so strange, yet wield so much power, enough to calm her frayed nerves?"
She soon did her research and found out that he was the Mr. Sinclair of the burgeoning hotel in town. He was married to a very beautiful young woman who was the sole administrator of the blooming hotel.
Days passed with bated breath as she waited for him to reappear. She watched the entrance for every tall man with an athletic build. But none of them had the same jet-black hair that adorned his head.
Six days had passed since he and she had begun to give up when he suddenly showed up, demanding a bottle of beer and wearing an effortless smile as though he hadn't just succeeded in making her mind swirl in the past six days.
That day, she danced with unrestrained passion, her movements a silent plea for his attention. With each twirl and sway, she stole stealthy glances at him, yearning for his gaze to meet hers.
That day, she danced her wildest, passion unrestrained, swirling this way and that, sneaking stealthy smiles at him, begging for his attention.
Mr Sinclair, merry with wine, invited her to his table and got started to dine and wine together.
"You're happier than the last time I saw you." A playful grin played at the corner of his lips.
She masked the raging turmoil within her and grinned back, happy to be breathing the same air that he was breathing.
How could he know that her dreams had been filled with images of him, that she wanted to choose him as the father of her unborn child? As a part of her grand design to win a responsible father for her child, she fed him glass after glass of wine, until he became increasingly oblivious to his surroundings, his inhibitions melting away in the haze of intoxication.
She swiftly guided him to one of the rooms where the drunkards usually crashed for the night. The next morning, they woke up entwined in each other's arms. She played the part, pretending to have been wasted just as he was, their apologies flowing like a river. His eyes were heavy with shame, his apologies pouring out like a broken dam, each word heavy with regret.
As he stumbled out of the inn, she felt a surge of satisfaction coursing through her veins. Her plan had worked like a charm, and she could almost taste the victory.
But beneath her facade of triumph, there was a flicker of something else, something darker. Deep down, she couldn't shake the gnawing feeling of guilt. Yet, she pushed it aside, burying it under layers of determination and ambition. After all, she had a future to secure, and nothing was going to stand in her way.
As she stood outside his door, nerves fluttering in her chest, her feet went icy in a twinge of hesitation. It had been a month since that fateful night at the inn, and now she was about to confront Mr. Sinclair in the sanctity of his own home.
With a deep breath, she pressed the doorbell, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood. She hoped that she would not meet his wife. Having heard of how smart she was from the rumors that were flying, she was sure she would sniff her out as a liar in no time.
When a petite ginger haired woman answered the door and demanded who she was, horror fleeing into her eyes as she listened to her tale, her inherent kindness prevailing as she invited her in, she knew she would struggle with a lot more guilt as she executed her grand plan.
Even though she had prepared for war, not anticipating the kindness with which Mr Sinclair's wife treated her, once inside, she wasted no time in ingratiating herself into their lives, clinging to Mr. Sinclair like a lifeline. With each passing day, she worked her way into his heart, slowly but surely turning it against his wife who remained calm despite the intruder's nastiness and rudeness.
Sometimes, she overheard them talking in their room. The gentle woman whose voice was equally gentle would plead with her husband to get an apartment.
She would smile at herself as Mr Sinclair hit his wife and kicked her out of the room, and finally into the cold night, out of their house.
She quickly stepped into her shoes, becoming the new Mrs Sinclair and just as she had anticipated.
MR SINCLAIR
"Is Baron aware of this?" Mr. Sinclair's voice cut through the stillness of the study like a knife, his tone deceptively calm despite the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. His gaze bore into the aide standing before him, searching for any hint of hesitation or uncertainty.
"Not yet, sir. I decided to come straight to you because you were the one who handled this issue the last time." The aide said, replying calculatively, careful not to upset his boss whose temper he was quite familiar with. The tension was swelling with every passing second, the clock in the background ticking away with maddening insistence.
"How much have we lost in twenty four hours?"
"We lost ten million USD to the phishing attack and seventy five billion USD to the crash of stock prices."
Mr Sinclair's usually stoic demeanor faltered for a moment, his mask of control slipping to reveal the raw vulnerability that lay beneath. He slapped against his thigh, desperately fumbling for his inhaler. He presses down on the trigger and a rush of relief replaces the panic that flickered in his eyes a moment ago. Beside him, the aide stood, his own hands shaking as he attempted to remove his boss' tie in a futile effort to ease the constriction in his throat.
"What is the media saying?" He asks in a strained voice between bouts of coughing.
The aide scratched his head, brows furrowed in concern, "Well, we have bad publicity and we're currently trending on X."
"Contact the publicity and media team and have them contact the US dailies. Have them pull it down. Block every news and tag the ones you cannot block as fake news," Mr. Sinclair commanded through gritted teeth, his voice tinged with an undercurrent of frustration and anger.
"Baron definitely had to pay for this. Look what wreckage he's caused by walking out in the press team!" His seething rage steamed in labored breaths.
In one swift sweep, he cleared the huge oak table behind which he sat, each item clattering to the ground; the glass nameplate, stationery, tea cup, files, and documents that floated in the air before toppling to the ground.
The door flew open. Mr Sinclair's attention immediately flew to the door, lips poised, ready to unleash the remnants of his sacred anger at the undiscerning intruder.
Father and son stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. Baron's chest heaved with the force of ragged breaths, his eyes burning with a mixture of defiance and hurt.
Mr Sinclair rose from his seat, in a swift almost reflexive movement, his palm connected with Baron's face, leaving a sharp crack hanging in the air.
Baron staggers backward. His head whips to an impossible angle the force of the slap sending shockwaves through his body. He struggles to steady himself. He meets his father's gaze, eyes burning with soldering intensity.
"You have just one more month to prove yourself. Now, get out!"
His voice trembled as he pointed him to the door.
With a silent nod and a stiff smile at the aide who kept his head respectfully bowed, Baron gathered what was left of his composure, the document in his hand protesting with a soft rustle as his fist clenched tightly around it.