The ride back to the Sinclair estate felt like a descent back into captivity. My fingers tapped nervously against the steering wheel as I navigated through the winding streets, Julian's words echoing in my mind.
"You're not like them."
No one had ever said that to me before—not in that way. And the truth was, I wasn't sure how to feel about it. Part of me wanted to dismiss him as just another rich heir playing games, but there was something about the way he looked at me, as though he saw through the carefully curated image I had been forced to wear my entire life. It was unsettling—and intoxicating.
By the time I reached the gates of our estate, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting a golden glow over the sprawling gardens. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming roses, but it did little to calm the storm brewing inside me.
I parked the car and stepped out, the sound of gravel crunching under my heels grounding me in reality. The house loomed before me, an imposing structure of white stone and grandeur. It wasn't just a home—it was a fortress, a symbol of the Sinclair legacy. And tonight, it felt more suffocating than ever.
---
"Where have you been?" my mother's voice greeted me the moment I stepped inside. She was standing in the foyer, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in my slightly disheveled appearance.
"I went out for a drive," I said, keeping my tone casual.
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, suspicious but not probing. "Your father's been asking for you. He's in the study."
"Of course he is," I muttered under my breath, making my way toward the study before she could say anything more.
My father was seated behind his massive oak desk, papers spread out before him. He looked up as I entered, his expression stern but expectant.
"Amelia," he said, gesturing for me to sit. "We need to discuss the charity gala next week. You'll be attending with Patrick Davenport."
I froze mid-step. "Patrick Davenport?"
"Yes," he said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "The Davenports are key investors, and Patrick has expressed interest in getting to know you better. It would be beneficial for the family if you made yourself available."
Made myself available. As though I were a business deal to be brokered.
"I'm not interested in Patrick Davenport," I said, my voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath the surface.
"This isn't about interest, Amelia," my father said, his tone icy. "It's about responsibility. You have a duty to this family, and you will do what's expected of you."
For a moment, I considered arguing, pushing back against the endless stream of obligations that defined my life. But I knew it would be pointless. My father wasn't a man who entertained rebellion, not even from his own daughter.
"Fine," I said, forcing the word out through gritted teeth. "I'll be there."
He nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now go get some rest. You look tired."
---
I didn't go to my room. Instead, I found myself wandering through the garden, my thoughts tangled in a mess of frustration and longing. The evening air was cool against my skin, the sound of crickets filling the silence as I made my way to the bench near the rose trellis.
I sat down, burying my face in my hands. What was I doing? Meeting with Julian Harrington was reckless enough, but the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about him made it worse. He was dangerous—everything about him was a threat to the life my parents had meticulously built for me. And yet, for reasons I couldn't explain, I felt drawn to him.
I pulled out my phone, staring at the blank screen. Part of me wanted to text him, to see if he felt the same pull I did. But the rational part of me knew better. Any involvement with Julian would only lead to disaster.
"Amelia?"
I looked up, startled, to see my brother, Edward, standing a few feet away. His tie was loosened, his suit jacket draped over one arm, and his usual smirk was replaced by an expression of genuine concern.
"Edward," I said, quickly straightening. "What are you doing out here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he said, walking over to sit beside me. "You've been quiet all evening. Something on your mind?"
I hesitated, debating whether to confide in him. Edward and I weren't particularly close, but he was the only one in the family who seemed to understand the pressures we faced.
"It's nothing," I said eventually. "Just... tired, I guess."
He studied me for a moment, his sharp blue eyes—so much like our father's—narrowing slightly. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"
I laughed, but it was hollow. "I'm fine, really. Just not looking forward to the gala."
"Ah, yes. Patrick Davenport," he said with a grimace. "The human embodiment of a tax deduction."
I couldn't help but smile. Edward's ability to find humor in even the most frustrating situations was one of the few things I admired about him.
"Thanks for that," I said, the tension in my chest easing slightly.
"Anytime," he said, leaning back against the bench. "But seriously, Amelia, if something's bothering you, you can tell me. I'm on your side, you know."
I nodded, but I didn't say anything. Because the truth was, I didn't know how to explain what was bothering me—not to Edward, not to anyone.
---
Later that night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, my heart skipping a beat when I saw the message.
"You're quiet tonight. Second thoughts?"
It was Julian.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. For a long moment, I considered deleting the message, cutting him out before things got more complicated. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Instead, I typed a response. "No second thoughts. Just a lot on my mind."
His reply came almost instantly. "Care to share?"
I hesitated, then typed back, "Not tonight."
"Fair enough. Sweet dreams, Amelia."
I stared at the message until the screen went dark, the words burning into my mind. Sweet dreams.
I wasn't sure I'd have any of those tonight.