The sky was gold by the time Aiden arrived at Sinclair Tower, but it didn't feel like morning.
It felt like judgment day.
The building loomed above him, its glass exterior reflecting the clouds like it was trying to keep the heavens out. Sixty-three stories of power, polished to perfection. Men in suits swept past the revolving doors with sharp eyes and sharper intentions. Even the doormen looked like they'd bite you if you walked in wrong.
Aiden adjusted his collar and stared up at the logo—S I N C L A I R—engraved in brass along the granite steps. The letters shimmered like they knew who belonged and who didn't.
He didn't.
He swallowed hard, fingering the laminated badge he'd found in the envelope. Temporary clearance. One day only. No explanation.
Just the weight of a name that didn't belong to him—yet seemed to be following him everywhere now.
*****
"Name?" the woman at the front desk asked, not bothering to look up.
"Aiden Cross," he replied, voice steady despite the tension in his spine.
She tapped a few keys, then stopped. Her fingers froze mid-click.
Her eyes finally met his. Cold. Curious. "You're early."
"I figured being late would get me shot."
That earned him a blink, maybe even a smirk. "Take elevator C. You're expected on the 43rd floor. Don't speak to anyone unless they speak to you. And for the love of God, don't wander."
As he turned away, she added under her breath, "They never invite the bastards. This must be serious."
Aiden's blood turned to ice.
******
The elevator's walls were mirrored, and for a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back.
His reflection was clean-shaven, hair neatly combed, dressed in the one decent button-up he owned and a borrowed blazer from Marcus the cook. He looked almost…legit.
But the eyes gave him away. Restless. Searching.
He watched the floor numbers light up.
18… 23… 35…
He exhaled. Not a deep breath—just enough to keep from cracking.
When the elevator chimed and the doors opened, it was like stepping onto another planet.
*****
The 43rd floor wasn't an office. It was a command center.
Polished marble floors stretched beneath towering glass walls. A vast open space with frosted glass partitions, sculptures worth more than his entire street, and people who looked carved from ambition. Phones rang softly in the distance. Laptops clicked in quiet rhythm. Even the silence here had status.
A tall woman in a gray dress approached. Her posture screamed power. Her heels clicked like a countdown.
"You're early," she said. Her eyes scanned him like a scanner reading for flaws. "Good. I like early."
"Elara Blake?" he guessed.
"You have a sharp tongue, Mr. Cross. You'll need a sharper mind to match."
He followed her through a corridor that wound like a maze, every hallway more pristine than the last. The scent of fresh paper, expensive ink, and chilled air hung thick.
"This isn't a normal internship," she said without looking at him. "There will be no coffee-fetching or copy-making. You're not here for experience."
"Then why am I here?" Aiden asked.
She stopped in front of a matte black door with no label.
"You're here because someone wants to see you. Alone."
The door opened. Cold air poured out like breath from a tomb.
*****
The room was dim, lit only by the skyline behind the glass. A single desk. Two chairs. And in one of them sat a man Aiden had only ever seen on television—grayer now, older, but unmistakable.
Reginald Sinclair.
The billionaire. The legend. The ghost who ruled everything.
Aiden stood frozen at the threshold.
"Sit," the old man said, voice like gravel and iron.
Aiden sat. Slowly.
For a moment, there was only silence between them. Reginald studied him like he was peering through time itself.
"You look like her," the old man said finally.
Aiden blinked. "Excuse me?"
Reginald leaned back, his face lined with age and secrets. "Your mother. Maria. She had that same look—like the world betrayed her before it ever gave her a chance."
Aiden's breath hitched.
"You knew my mother?"
"I ruined your mother," Reginald said, calm and absolute. "Then I paid to forget her. That's what men like me do."
Aiden didn't know if he wanted to punch the man or scream at him. Instead, he whispered, "So you're…?"
"I'm your father," Reginald replied, like it was a footnote.
Aiden felt the ground tilt beneath him. His chest constricted.
"You think you can just drop that on me and—"
"No. I don't expect forgiveness. I expect understanding. I'm dying."
The words landed like stones in Aiden's stomach.
Reginald leaned forward. "Cancer. Stage four. You've got six months of me, give or take."
Aiden opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"I have one legitimate son," Reginald continued. "Ethan. He's a predator in a suit. Raised with teeth and numbers. He'll inherit everything unless I stop him."
"Why would you stop him?" Aiden asked bitterly. "Isn't he your real son?"
Reginald's laugh was hollow. "He's my mistake. You're my regret."
Aiden stood. "I didn't come here to play out your twisted family drama. You sent an envelope. Not a leash."
Reginald's voice cut through the air like a knife. "You came because you needed answers. You stayed because part of you wants this, even if you don't admit it."
Aiden didn't answer. Couldn't.
The room felt smaller now. Tighter.
"Let me be clear," Reginald said. "I don't want your love. I want your presence. Be seen. Be heard. Let Ethan know the bastard he was never told about has teeth too."
"You want me to start a war."
"No," Reginald said. "I want you to win it."
******
Elara was waiting when Aiden stepped out.
She looked him over once. "You look like someone just told you who you really are."
Aiden didn't answer.
She handed him a folder. "Inside is your apartment key, a credit card with a Sinclair account, and the terms of your temporary position. Review everything. You start Monday."
"I haven't said yes," he snapped.
"No," she said, her lips curling into a faint smile. "But your eyes have."
*****
That night, Aiden stood in a luxury apartment thirty stories above the city, staring at the skyline like it was a stranger.
The space was sterile—white leather, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a kitchen that looked unused. A place built to impress, not to live in.
He set the folder down on the table and sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair.
He was the son of Reginald Sinclair.
A name buried in power, polished by blood.
And somewhere out there, a brother who had no idea Aiden existed.
No idea he was coming.