Chapter 80
2291words
Lucian Sinclair Estate | North Courtyard Garden
Late Morning
The winter air bit gently at Kristina’s skin as she stood among the clipped hedges and bare vines of the courtyard garden. Her breath left in slow clouds, fading into the gray sky above. The quiet should have soothed her, but her chest was still tight, raw from what had just passed.
Footsteps sounded on the stone path behind her. She didn’t need to turn—Sebastian’s presence carried its own gravity, steady and familiar. He didn’t speak at once, only stopped a few paces away, giving her the space to decide if she wanted him there.
“I’ve never seen his eyes on me like that,” Kristina said at last, her voice low. “As if I was someone he couldn’t recognize.”
Sebastian’s gaze softened. “He recognizes you, Kristina. Too well, maybe. That’s the problem.”
She turned to face him, searching his expression. “What do you mean?”
“Maxim has always loved by holding tight. You’ve always lived by breaking free.” He gave a faint, wry smile. “Two forces bound to clash eventually.”
Kristina looked down at her hands, flexing them as if she could still feel the weight of Maxim’s disappointment pressing there. “I didn’t want to hurt him. But when I spoke, it felt like I cut him anyway.”
“You didn’t cut him,” Sebastian said firmly. “You showed him you’re not a girl he can guard anymore. You’re a woman who makes her own stand. That hurts him, yes—but not because he’s stopped loving you. Because love, for him, has always meant control.”
Her throat tightened. “So what if I’ve lost him?”
“You won’t.” Sebastian stepped closer, his voice quieter now, but steadier than the cold ground beneath them. “I’ve trained beside you. I’ve watched you fight, watched you stumble, watched you rise again harder every time. You’ve never lost anyone you chose to keep. Maxim isn’t gone—he just doesn’t know how to follow where you’re going.”
Kristina blinked fast, fighting the sting in her eyes. For all her strength, for all her composure, the words broke something soft inside her.
Sebastian’s hand lifted slightly, hesitated, then settled gently on her shoulder. “You’ve always been my family, Kristina. Not by blood, but by battle. By every scar we share. You’re my sister in all the ways that matter. And I’ll tell you this—he will come back to you. But until then…” He gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “I won’t leave your side.”
Kristina let out a shuddered breath, finally leaning into the rare comfort he offered. The winter cold pressed in around them, but in that moment, she didn’t feel it. She only felt the steady weight of Sebastian’s presence—unyielding, immovable, the kind of brother she had never been given, but had somehow found.
Kristina lingered after Sebastian left, her hand brushing the rough stone wall of the garden as if the cold surface might anchor her. The silence stretched, pierced only by the brittle rattle of bare vines against the winter wind.
She tilted her head, eyes drawn past the courtyard toward the estate’s far wing. Through the open archway, she could just make out the shadow of the garage doors, one half-open. A figure crouched near the gleam of polished steel—Eli, sleeves pushed back, shoulders tense even from a distance. His movements were sharp, purposeful, but she recognized the truth beneath them. He wasn’t fixing anything. He was holding himself together the only way he knew how.
Kristina’s lips pressed into a thin line. A part of her wanted to go to him, to steady him as he had steadied her. But she stayed where she was, letting the cold air bite at her lungs instead. They would carry one another soon enough. For now, she let the sight of him be enough.
Turning back toward the garden, she drew in a deep breath, whispering a promise only the winter air could hear:
I will not falter. Not for him. Not for us. Not for what we’ve chosen.
Lucian Sinclair Estate | Garage
Eli had no business with the wrench, and he knew it. Still, his hands worked over the bolt, twisting, loosening, tightening again—anything to pretend his mind wasn’t racing faster than any car in the room. The garage was immaculate, every vehicle polished to a sheen, and he looked almost out of place crouched there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw tight.
From the doorway, Ash lingered, arms folded, watching with faint amusement.
“You planning to win a war with that bolt,” he drawled, “or just strangle it into submission?”
Eli let out something between a sigh and a half-smirk, eyes still on his pointless work.
“Better to fight a bolt than what’s in my head.”
Ash pushed off the frame and walked closer, boots steady on the concrete. He didn’t bother with more mockery; his gaze was sharp, cutting through the distraction.
“You’re not fooling me. You’re wound up because you don’t know where you fit in this storm. Maxim. Kristina. Lucian. You’d bleed yourself dry to hold it all together, but you can’t.”
The wrench stilled in Eli’s hand. His voice was quieter when it came.
“Sometimes I don’t know if I’m enough. For her. For him. For any of this.” He gave a small shake of his head, staring at the car’s gleaming surface as though it might answer him. “Lucian’s got everything—power, wealth, control. Maxim sees that. And sometimes I wonder if he looks at me like I’ll never measure up.”
Ash’s expression hardened, his voice cutting through with steady conviction.
“You think Maxim gives a damn about bank accounts? That’s not what he was looking at. He was looking at whether you could carry her when she needs it. Whether you’d stand when the fire comes. And you have—again and again.”
The words landed heavy, silencing Eli’s protest before it could form.
Ash leaned against the hood now, arms braced casually, but his tone softened.
“Listen to me. You’re more than enough. You fight like hell for the people you love—and that’s something most men can’t even begin to give. Kristina knows it. Lucian knows it. Hell, even Maxim knows it, though he’ll never say it out loud. Wealth and titles don’t win loyalty, Eli. Heart does. And you’ve got more of that than any of us.”
Eli’s grip loosened on the wrench, shoulders sagging as if something heavy had finally eased. He glanced sideways at Ash, the closest thing to gratitude he could give without words.
Ash gave him a firm clap on the shoulder, grounding.
“Quit picking fights with bolts, Sinclair. Save it for the bastards who deserve it.”
For the first time all morning, Eli let out a breath that almost resembled relief. The wrench clinked softly against the concrete as he set it down, and the silence that followed felt lighter somehow.
Eli stayed crouched for a moment longer after Ash’s hand left his shoulder, the echo of the words still circling in his chest. Finally, he set the wrench aside for good and rose to his feet. The garage door yawned open to the pale daylight, and as he stepped out, the cold air met him sharp and bracing.
Crossing the drive, he glanced up toward the estate’s second-floor windows. A figure passed along the hall above—Lucian, his posture as straight and composed as ever, though Eli caught a flicker of something weighted in the way he moved. Their gazes never met, but the sight lingered with Eli. They were all carrying their own storms, bound together and yet alone in the weight of them.
Behind him, Ash remained in the garage. He leaned back against the hood of the car Eli had been pretending to fix, arms folded, eyes narrowing slightly. A faint, private thought slipped through the quiet:
He doubts himself too much. Men like him don’t break—they hold the line when the rest of us would run.
Ash pushed off the car with a grunt, the moment passing as quickly as it had come, and the estate swallowed the silence again.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Upstairs Hallway
The hallway was quiet, save for the faint creak of old wood under Vex’s boots. He’d just rounded the corner, heading for the stairs, when Lucian’s door opened.
“Boss,” Vex said, casual, dipping his chin in greeting.
Lucian nodded once in return, clipped as always. Vex kept walking, but he only made it a few steps before Lucian’s voice called after him.
He stopped, turned, and found his employer standing there with a look that was rare on him—uncertain. Lucian opened his mouth, but no words came.
Vex arched a brow, folding his arms. “Spill it. You’re not the type to call a man’s name just to breathe at him.”
Lucian exhaled, eyes narrowing slightly, as though irritation might mask hesitation. “Maxim… he doesn’t understand.”
Vex tilted his head, leaning back against the wall. “He’s a father. It’s not about understanding. It’s about worrying so hard it twists him up. That’s what fathers do—they see danger before they see happiness.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened. “He treats her like she’s fragile. She isn’t.”
“No,” Vex said, steady and blunt, “but she’s his. Doesn’t matter if she’s carved from iron. To him, she’ll always be the kid he had to protect. That doesn’t go away.”
Lucian’s gaze dropped, the words heavier than he’d intended to let show.
“And you? Do you think he’s right to oppose this?”
Vex gave a short laugh, humorless. “Not my place to pick sides. But I’ll tell you this—if I had a daughter and she was with two men like you and Eli? I’d probably lose some sleep too. Doesn’t mean I’d stop her. Doesn’t mean I’d love her less. Just means I’d fight the ghosts in my head every damn day.”
The silence stretched. Lucian’s expression was unreadable, but his shoulders eased, just slightly.
Vex pushed off the wall, tone firm but quieter now. “Look, you don’t need Maxim’s blessing stamped in gold. You just need him to see that you’ll hold her steady when the world comes for her. That’s all any father wants. You prove that, he’ll come around. Might not say it out loud, but he will.”
Lucian finally met his eyes, a flicker of something close to gratitude buried beneath his composure.
Vex shrugged, starting toward the stairs. “Don’t overthink it, boss. You’ve already got the hard part handled. The rest… that’s just time.”
Lucian watched him go, the weight of the words lingering long after the echo of boots faded.
Lucian stayed where he was long after Vex’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs. The hallway stretched quiet around him, sunlight pooling pale across the banister. He let his hand brush the wood, grounding himself against its steady line.
Leader. Protector. Rival. Lover. The words pressed at the edges of him, roles he’d never asked for but could no longer set down.
Vex had been right—blessing or no blessing, what mattered was standing when the fire came. And if love demanded that of him, then perhaps it was the only test worth carrying.
He straightened, drawing a measured breath, and turned back toward his room. The estate held its silence, but inside, the question remained: not whether he could lead, but whether he could love with the same unshakable resolve.
Lucian Sinclair Estate | Study
The estate had gone still with night, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls and made every movement sound louder than it was. A fire burned low in the hearth of the study, casting amber light over shelves of leather-bound volumes and the heavy desk that had carried decades of Sinclair work.
Lucian stood near the window, glass of scotch in hand, though it had gone untouched. He was watching the reflection of the fire rather than the darkness outside when the door opened.
Eli stepped in, hesitating only long enough to close it behind him. His posture was less rigid than earlier, but his eyes carried the same weight Lucian had been shouldering all day.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Lucian asked.
Eli gave a half-smile, tired but genuine. “You either.”
Lucian set the glass aside, turning to face him fully. “Maxim will not forgive this quickly. Perhaps not at all.”
Eli crossed the room slowly, leaning against the edge of the desk. The firelight caught the hard lines of his jaw, softened by something else—resolve.
“Then let him hold his anger. What matters is that she doesn’t carry it. That’s ours to take, not hers.”
Lucian’s brow lifted faintly, a flicker of surprise breaking through the steel of his expression. The words mirrored his own thoughts, sharpened in someone else’s voice.
“She deserves peace,” Eli went on, quieter now. “Even if Maxim never gives it, she should feel it with us.”
The fire cracked softly in the silence that followed. Lucian let the words settle before he answered, his tone measured but edged with something almost human.
“That’s what I was going to tell you.”
Their eyes held—no rivalry, no contest, only the weight of a shared vow neither had spoken until now.
Eli pushed off the desk, pausing at the doorway. His voice was steady, his glance steady too.
“Then we’re agreed.”
Lucian gave a single nod, almost imperceptible, but it carried the weight of an oath.
When Eli left, the study returned to its silence, save for the fire’s low burn. Lucian stood where he was, the echo of the moment lingering. Not a truce. Not a pact. Something deeper—two men who had chosen the same woman, and with her, the burden of carrying one another.
What is asked of love is not ease, but endurance.
—To be continued.
