Click clack.
The faint sound of 6 inch Christian Louboutins can be heard in the bustling airport arrivals gate. A young woman, the sea of sweatpants and hoodies, stood out like a sore thumb in her black off the shoulder top paired with tailored black pants. Her hair was treated with a fresh blowout and the black Birkin filled to the brim with miscellaneous items placed on top of her rimowa suitcase was bound to attract all the stares it did.
"Lia!", a shout came from her left and by the time she turned around, she was already enveloped in her mother's warm embrace.
"Oh my poor daughter! You have grown thin, are you not eating? Is your allowance not enough? I'll tell your father to increase it immediately. How about-"
Mrs. Whitmore was interrupted by her son coughing behind her, reminding the mother daughter duo that he was not dead.
She sneered in contempt at her son, "What? Jealous that your sister gets special treatment? Let me tell you, Nathaniel Everret Whitmore, I haven't settled the score for not sending my daughter enough allowance yet! Wait till we get home and I'll show you what this old woman is capable of."
Nathaniel shuddered at the thought of his mother's wrath and hid behind his wife who was quietly watching everything from the sidelines. She rolled her eyes when she saw her husband retreating and using her as a shield.
"Cecilia, let us go home first. You must be dying to have a good rest."
Dawn Vos, Cecelia's sister-in-law, took her suitcase and began walking in the direction of the car with the rest following behind her.
In the car, Mrs. Whitmore fussed over Cecelia even more, earning Cecelia a look of envy from her brother.
"You never do this for me whenever I come back from my business trips…" He grumbled under his breathe.
"Oho…Look at how old you are before you talk. Thirty six years old and counting and you have not given me a single grandchild to hold! Hmph, get out of my face."
Cecelia stared out the window as the city lights blurred past like watercolors smeared on glass. Home. It was supposed to be a sanctuary, but tonight it felt more like a cage.
Her mother's voice droned on about gala parties and who she should meet next, but Cecelia barely heard. Her mind was tangled in memories. The fluorescent lights of the labs touching on the cadavers were still fresh in her mind. The smell of disinfect the staff used to clean the lab after yet another person di-
"Cecelia, are you even listening?" Her mother's sharp voice sliced through the haze, yanking her back to the present.
"Ah.."
"Never mind, you must be really tired. Get some sleep. We can talk about your outfit for the Sinclair family banquet later."
Mrs. Whitmore said this as she gently pushed Cecelia against the soft interior of the car and placed a hand over her eyes. Cecelia just resigned to her fate and soon drifted into a sweet slumber.
Dawn looked at Cecelia in her mother's embrace from the rearview mirror with a complicated expression. She caught sight of the driver and went back to scrolling on her phone.
—----------
The stench of rust and gasoline hung thick in the air. Inside a dilapidated warehouse tucked away in the city's industrial underbelly, chaos unfolded.
Crates splintered. Glass shattered. Screams tore through the air as two rival gangs clashed in a blur of fists, steel pipes, and flying bullets.
And in the center of it all stood a man like he had walked straight out of hell.
Soren Rhodes Sinclair.
His shirt was torn halfway down the chest, blood trickling from a cut on his brow, but he didn't seem to notice—or care. His grin was wide, feral, as he hurled one man over his shoulder and swung a crowbar into another's knee with a satisfying crunch.
"Come on, you bastards!" he laughed, voice wild, teeth bared. "Is that all you've got? You were talking so much shit ten minutes ago! Time to put your money where your mouth is and suddenly you all become weaklings. Tsk!"
Three came at him at once.
He ducked under the first punch, drove an elbow into a ribcage, spun and smashed a glass bottle against someone's head. The third barely had time to blink before Soren's boot connected with his chest, sending him crashing into a stack of crates.
The sounds of the fight began to fade. One by one, bodies groaned and collapsed. Soren's men—tattooed, grim-faced enforcers—tightened the circle, finishing off the stragglers.
And then, with a mechanical hiss, the massive roll-up doors began to rise.
The harsh warehouse lighting reflected off the glossy black paint of the luxury car that glided in. Behind it, a convoy of sleek vehicles followed, humming low like predators circling prey.
Soren wiped the sweat from his brow and cracked his knuckles.
The passenger door of the front car opened.
Inside, the eldest of the sons of the Whitmore family lounged in leather seats like kings in a den of thieves.
Alden Pierce Whitmore, always polished, was flicking through financial reports on a tablet with one hand and sipping whiskey with the other. Callum James Whitmore, messier and more relaxed, leaned back with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Soren slid in beside them, still catching his breath, hair damp with sweat and blood splatter dotting his collar.
Callum exhaled a stream of smoke directly into Soren's face.
"Looks like you've been playing again."
Soren swatted the smoke away, coughing with mock offense.
"Just stretching my legs," he grinned.
Alden didn't look up. "How many this time?"
"Nine. Maybe ten. I lost count after the guy with the machete."
Callum chuckled. "You're a goddamn menace."
"Yet here I am, your favorite menace," Soren said, tossing a bloodstained ring onto the console. "DeLuca's boys won't be bothering our ports again."
The twins clinked their glasses.
Alden finally looked up. "And the Sinclairs still think you're nothing but an overgrown frat boy with a trust fund and a grudge."
"That's the point," Soren said, leaning back. "While they're laughing at my so-called antics, I've already locked down three of their shipping routes, ten of their best men, and half their damn board. Give me two years and I'll buy the whole damn family."
Callum snorted. "You got big ambitions Sinclair."
Soren's grin faltered for a breath.
"My father wants to arrange a marriage… between Cecelia and Sebastian. I want to steal the bride," he said, swirling the drink Alden had just handed him. " I think it'll make things easier when it's time to wrestle the Sinclair name out of my stepmother's claws."
There was a pause.
Callum's eyes narrowed. "You actually…want to marry our sister?"
"I want the inheritance. It's either me… or my brother. And trust me, you don't want him anywhere near Cecelia."
Alden raised a brow. "You're serious?"
"As a heart attack," Soren replied.
Callum smirked but shook his head. "Brothers don't covet each other's sisters, Sinclair."
Soren looked at them both, more serious now. "I'm not the guy I used to be. I won't hurt her. This marriage, it's political, not romantic. But I'll protect her with my life if she agrees to it."
A long silence followed.
Then Alden lifted his glass. "If she agrees, we won't stand in her way."
Callum followed, though his smile was more skeptical. "But hurt her, and you'll need more than crowbars to survive us."
Soren grinned and lifted his own glass. "Fair enough."
The three men clinked glasses and downed their shots. Outside, the rest of the city slept including Cecelia, blissfully unaware of the deal just made in the shadows.