I had never liked the glittering chandeliers.
Don't get me wrong—there's no denying that they were beautiful. The way the light bounced off the crystal, casting a thousand reflections over the ballroom floor, made the space look like something out of a fairy tale. But I hated what it represented: excess, expectations, and the suffocating weight of my last name. Sinclair.
The Sinclair family name was as well-known as it was revered. My father built an empire, and for all the accolades and respect that came with it, there was always one price to pay: your freedom. My life had been laid out for me since I was old enough to understand what the word "inheritance" meant. It wasn't a privilege—it was a chain. A golden one, but a chain nonetheless.
Tonight, I was at another one of those high-society parties. The kind where everyone wears their wealth like a badge of honor. The kind where the sparkling champagne doesn't quite mask the bitterness of strained smiles and whispered deals. My parents were in their element, surrounded by business partners, colleagues, and friends who owed their success to my father's generosity. Me? I was a bystander, an ornament to display at the right moments, a face to keep the family name polished. I was a trophy with a seat at the table, and it was a role I had long learned to accept.
But that didn't mean I liked it.
The clink of champagne glasses echoed across the ballroom as I took another sip of my drink, staring out at the crowd. The room was a blur of pastel gowns and sharp tuxedos, moving with an air of practiced elegance. Everyone here was someone, or at least pretending to be. Me? I felt like I was suffocating in the layers of expectations wrapped around me.
"Amelia." My father's voice sliced through my thoughts like a knife. I turned to see him standing a few feet away, his commanding presence making even the busiest corners of the room fall silent when he spoke. He was wearing the same pinstriped suit I'd seen him in countless times—dark, imposing, expensive. The kind of suit you wear when you want people to know you're in control.
"Yes, Father?" I replied, forcing a smile.
"Come, we need to speak with the Van der Merks about the next quarter's projections." He didn't ask. He ordered. That was the way it always went.
I set my glass down on a nearby table, following him through the crowd. As always, the whispers of my family's wealth swirled around us like an invisible cloud. Every step I took, every glance I met, reminded me that I was never just Amelia. I was "Amelia Sinclair, heir to Sinclair Corporation," a title I never asked for and couldn't escape.
"Father, do we really need to meet with them tonight?" I asked, my voice just above a whisper. I knew the answer before I spoke it. I'd never had a choice. My future wasn't mine to decide.
"We need to keep up appearances," he said, his tone clipped. He didn't even look at me when he spoke. "People are watching. They always are."
I sighed quietly, my shoulders tightening as we approached the Van der Merks. The couple stood in front of a group of their colleagues, discussing the finer points of a project, no doubt. They smiled as we drew closer, their practiced grins as fake as the glimmering jewelry they wore. My father reached out to shake the husband's hand, immediately launching into a conversation about profits, mergers, and the future of Sinclair Corporation. I stood silently beside him, doing my best to look engaged while internally wishing I could be anywhere else.
I felt like I was disappearing into the background, lost beneath the weight of my family's expectations. Even the clinking of glasses, the murmur of voices, everything felt distant, like I was watching it all through a fogged-up window. There was no room for me to exist as myself—only as the person I was supposed to be.
"Amelia," a voice interrupted my thoughts.
I looked up, my gaze meeting the cool, blue eyes of a man I'd never seen before. He was standing just to the side of the Van der Merks, his posture relaxed, his presence almost unnervingly calm among the chaos of the event. He was dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, his dark hair just a little too messy to be considered neat. Everything about him seemed effortless—his confidence, his composure, even his quiet smile. But what struck me most was how utterly out of place he seemed in this world of polished faces and tight smiles.
"May I have a word with you, Miss Sinclair?" he asked, his voice deep, but with an accent I couldn't quite place. My heart skipped a beat, and I almost forgot to respond.
"Uh, sure," I said, glancing at my father for permission. He barely acknowledged me, lost in his conversation. It was as though I had disappeared entirely.
I followed the stranger a few steps away from the group, my curiosity piqued. As we moved, I couldn't shake the feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing here. And more than that, it felt as if he'd been waiting for me.
When we were out of earshot, he turned to face me, his gaze intense but not unfriendly. "I don't believe we've been introduced," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I'm Amelia Sinclair," I said, offering my hand, although the formality felt almost silly. It wasn't like I was used to people not knowing who I was. But he didn't seem impressed, or even intrigued, by my name. It was as if he didn't care who I was at all. "And you are?"
"Julian Harrington." The name hit me like a cold splash of water. Harrington. Of course. The rival family. The one my father had always warned me about. Their name was as synonymous with power as ours was. I had heard of Julian—a playboy, a businessman, someone who didn't seem to care for the formalities of the corporate world.
"You're…" I trailed off, unsure of what to say. "You're from the Harrington family?"
He nodded, his expression unreadable. "Guilty as charged."
"I didn't expect to meet you here." It was a lie, and I knew it. After all, this was exactly where people like him and I were supposed to meet.
"I'm sure you didn't," he replied, his tone light but with a hint of something more beneath the surface. "I've heard a lot about you, Amelia."
"I'm sure you have," I said, arching an eyebrow. "And I can guess what you've heard."
"Only that you're not quite the perfect Sinclair your father expects you to be," he said with a faint smirk, his eyes scanning the room behind me.
My breath caught in my throat. His words were too accurate, too cutting, and it was unsettling how he seemed to see right through me, past the smile I had perfected for these occasions.
"I'm not the perfect Sinclair," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "But I'm trying."
He met my eyes, and for a moment, I forgot about the rest of the world. "You don't have to try, you know. Not with me."
The moment hung in the air between us, like something dangerous, something forbidden. And I couldn't help but feel, for the first time in a long time, that maybe I wasn't as invisible as I thought.