Chapter 84
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Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Dining Area
The estate’s dining room was already alive with the soft clatter of china and the hum of conversation when Kristina stepped in. She wore one of Eli’s shirts, sleeves pushed to her elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh over bare legs. She didn’t bother to explain; she simply reached for toast from the silver rack, bit into it, and kept walking.
Eli trailed after her, his hoodie hanging open over a t-shirt, hair mussed from the wind outside. He dropped into the chair across from her with a half-grin, meeting her gaze across the table, as though the night before hadn’t been a declaration for half of California to see.
Lucian came last, as steady as ever. A charcoal sweater rested neatly over dark slacks, his sleeves pushed just enough to bare his wrists. Even in casual clothes, there was nothing unguarded about him. His expression was unreadable except for the faint flicker in his eyes that betrayed a man who had slept little and thought much. He took his seat at the head of the table without a word, his presence enough to quiet the air for a moment.
Ash sat two chairs down, a newspaper spread across his side of the table. He was muttering headlines under his breath, tapping the margin with one finger. Vex ignored both him and the paper, attacking a plate of pancakes stacked so high they might have counted as fortification rather than food.
“You’re late,” Sebastian remarked from the sideboard, pouring himself black coffee with surgical precision. He didn’t sit immediately, choosing instead to survey the three as though he were conducting an inventory. “Or perhaps I should say… fashionably late.”
Kristina shrugged, chewing. Eli just grinned wider.
“Long night?” Vex asked, not looking up from his plate. His voice carried just enough curiosity to sting, but he drowned it in another bite of pancake.
Lucian poured his coffee, the faintest curve of his mouth appearing before it was gone. He didn’t bother to answer.
Ash finally lowered the newspaper, folding it with a crisp snap. His sharp eyes flicked over the trio. “The society pages disagree. According to them, last night wasn’t just long—it was seismic. Half the state is speculating, and the other half is pretending not to.”
Kristina froze mid-bite, toast suspended. Eli leaned back, stretching lazily like a man without shame. Lucian only tapped his fingers once against the table, slow, deliberate.
“They would’ve talked no matter what we did,” he said calmly. “At least now, they’re talking about the truth.”
Sebastian settled into his chair at last, raising his cup in a quiet salute. “To the truth, then.”
Vex finally glanced up, smirking. “Guess that makes breakfast a press briefing.”
Kristina rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. For a moment, the sharp edges softened.
Ash sipped his coffee, then set the cup down with a quiet click. “Truth is one thing. Paperwork is another. And if last night meant what I think it did… you’ll need more than champagne and speeches to protect it.”
Eli’s grin faded, replaced by something steadier. He glanced at Lucian, then at Kristina, before answering. “We know.”
Lucian’s gaze cut toward Ash. “You’re right. Last night was the declaration. Today begins the work.” He let his hand rest flat on the table, each word precise. “The courthouse, the lawyers, the documents. It won’t all happen at once, but it will happen.”
Kristina lowered her toast, watching him. There was no hesitation in his tone—only certainty.
Sebastian arched a brow, a flicker of approval in his otherwise cool stare. “Then the three of you should clear your schedules. Because once you start, the world won’t stop looking for cracks.”
Lucian met his gaze evenly. “Let them look.”
Silence lingered for a moment, broken only by the scrape of Vex’s fork. Then Eli leaned forward, his elbows resting on the edge of the table. He didn’t reach for her, but the steady line of his gaze found hers, holding it like a touch neither of them needed to hide. His smile was quieter now, softer, but it carried the same weight as Lucian’s words.
Ash shook his head, muttering, “Well. At least it won’t be boring.”
And somehow, despite everything—the whispers outside the estate, the storm already building—they all settled into breakfast as though this was the most ordinary morning in the world.
Maxim Thorne’s Estate | Reception Hall
The call came late in the morning. No explanation, no agenda—just Maxim’s clipped voice on the line, inviting them to his estate. Lucian had listened in silence, only answering with a simple, “We’ll be there.”
Now, as the heavy oak doors opened before them, the weight of Maxim’s home pressed in. The estate was as exacting as the man himself—every line precise, every surface gleaming, a kind of order that demanded notice.
Kristina slowed just half a step behind Lucian as they entered, Eli beside her. The air was cooler here, quieter, and for once she couldn’t read whether they were expected as guests… or as subjects to be judged.
Then she saw him—Harold Sinclair, seated near the hearth, a glass of brandy untouched at his side. He rose at once, greeting them with the kind of gravitas that filled the room even before he spoke.
“Lucian. Kristina. Eli.” His eyes lingered on each in turn before shifting toward their host. “I see Maxim’s sense of timing hasn’t changed.”
Maxim entered then, deliberate, his steps unhurried, his expression unreadable, as though he had already decided what he was here to say.
“Sit,” he said simply, gesturing toward the long table at the center of the hall. “We’ve wasted enough time dancing around shadows. It’s time we spoke plainly.”
The reception hall of Maxim Thorne’s estate carried its own weight — tall windows lined with heavy drapery, polished marble floors softened by vast rugs, and chandeliers that caught every glint of winter light. It wasn’t a place for comfort so much as a place for decisions.
A long sofa had been arranged near the fire, where Lucian, Kristina, and Eli sat together. Across from them, in separate armchairs, Maxim and Harold watched in silence.
A maid crossed the hall with careful steps, setting down a silver tray on the low table between them. Cups of coffee, a porcelain teapot, and a small plate of sugared biscuits. She bowed out quickly, the sound of the door closing leaving only the low crackle of the fire.
Maxim rested his hand on the arm of his chair, his gaze sweeping across the three of them. “You look steady,” he said finally, almost surprised at his own words. “I’ve waited for one of you to fracture. For this… arrangement to split under its own strain.” He paused, his tone cutting but not cruel. “It hasn’t.”
Eli’s hand rested loosely against his knee, tension wound in restraint. Kristina kept her shoulders square, Lucian beside her unreadable as stone.
Maxim leaned forward slightly, his voice softer. “I won’t claim approval. But I will say this — I trust that you won’t destroy each other. And perhaps…” his eyes flicked to Harold, then back, “… perhaps that is enough.”
Harold shifted his cane, expression grave. “Trust alone is not protection. Not against law, or courts, or inheritance. If this is the path, it must be set in writing. Wills. Powers of attorney. Custody. Otherwise sentiment will fail you when the world demands order.”
The words landed with weight, though not as condemnation. Kristina looked at Harold, then Maxim — and for the first time, saw not opposition, but a reluctant kind of permission.
The reception hall held its quiet, the fire casting low light across polished wood and gilt frames. Maxim and Harold sat opposite, each in his own armchair, while Lucian, Kristina, and Eli shared the long sofa across from them — three aligned figures against the sweep of the room.
Lucian had been silent through Harold’s words, his presence deliberate. Then he leaned forward slightly, voice carrying with calm certainty.
“I’ve already spoken with Maren Hollis,” he said, naming the attorney without flourish. “She gave me counsel on what could be done — what should be done — if we are to move forward properly. But nothing has been drafted. Not yet. That will wait until I speak with Kristina and Eli, and we decide together.”
He paused, letting the weight of that settle. Then his gaze swept briefly to the two beside him before fixing back on Maxim and Harold.
“Her advice was clear. The estate, the trusts, the companies — everything that bears my name. It need not remain mine alone. It can be written so that the three of us share it. Equal ownership. Equal right to decide. Equal responsibility to bear.”
Kristina’s breath caught, the faintest shift in her posture betraying how deeply the words struck her.
On her other side, Eli’s brow lifted — just barely — a flicker of surprise quick but unmistakable. His hand paused at the armrest before settling again, his silence deliberate. He said nothing, though it was clear the thought would not rest. Not yet.
Lucian did not look at him, though the reaction had not gone unnoticed. His tone remained steady, almost unyielding.
“If we do this, it will not matter if one of us falters, or if the law insists on seeing only part of what we are. The record will say otherwise. It will bind us as tightly as paper allows.”
Harold inclined his head, a glint of thought behind his silence.
Maxim’s lips curved faintly — not quite warmth, but no longer censure. “You mean to make it undeniable.”
Lucian’s answer came without hesitation.
Harold’s cane shifted lightly against the rug, not out of impatience but thought. His eyes rested on Lucian first, then flicked briefly to Kristina and Eli.
“You speak of equality,” he said, his tone even, almost contemplative. “But forgive me, Lucian—doesn’t it place an uneven burden on you? Your holdings eclipse what either of them could place on the table. To merge it all… one might call it generosity. Others might call it folly.”
Kristina felt the words land like a quiet ripple. Not harsh, not condemning—simply a truth laid bare.
Lucian didn’t flinch. “We measure by more than money,” he answered.
Harold inclined his head, as though acknowledging but not conceding. His gaze lingered on Eli then, steady but without malice. “And you, Eli? It is one thing to accept a place at the table. Another to know the table itself cost more than you could earn in a lifetime. Do you accept that weight?”
Eli’s hand twitched faintly at the armrest, a flicker of surprise crossing his face again. He hadn’t expected Harold to say it out loud, the thing that always lingered at the edge of his thoughts. That he didn’t measure up here. Not in money, not in legacy. Lucian was the name on the buildings, the contracts, the balance sheets. Kristina carried a history and a weight that Eli couldn’t begin to touch. And him? He had his work, his loyalty, the hours he poured into Sinclair Dominion—but stacked against all this, it still felt small.
For a breath, he nearly spoke. The words pressed sharp against his teeth, a defense, a defiance. But he caught himself. His eyes cut briefly to Lucian—steady, unflinching, already holding the room without needing to raise his voice. Then away again.
Eli sank back into silence, deliberate, measured. Not surrender, not agreement. Just a choice. Whatever needed saying, he’d say it later. In private. Where it belonged.
Harold’s attention shifted to Kristina last. His voice softened, carrying less challenge than curiosity. “And you? You’ve lived under more than one name already. Do you truly wish to see this one bound with theirs—in ink and ledger both?”
Kristina hadn’t spoken yet. She had sat still between them, listening, weighing, holding the line with her silence. But now, her voice cut through the room—soft, but steady.
“You’re both right,” she said, looking first at Harold, then Maxim. “Lucian has more. More than Eli, more than me. But that doesn’t make him heavier, or us smaller. What we’re building… it isn’t about balance sheets. It’s about balance. And I trust them both to carry me. The same way I’ll carry them.”
Her hands folded loosely in her lap, but there was no weakness in her tone. “So if the law can’t understand us, then let the law catch up. Until then, we’ll write our own order.”
The fire cracked in the hearth, the only sound for a long moment. Maxim’s mouth curved—something like reluctant respect. Harold inclined his head, not with doubt, but with thought.
Between them, Lucian and Eli said nothing. They didn’t need to.
And with that, the matter—for tonight, at least—was finished.
What they chose in silence now demanded to be carried in truth.
—To be continued.
