– Milana –
The car glides to a smooth stop in front of the Sinclair estate.
Black gates, stone pillars, media vans flanking the driveway like vultures in tailored suits.
Beyond them, the estate looms, massive, cold, and unapologetically intimidating.
I stay still, staring out the tinted window.
Beside me, Adrian, hasn't spoken a word since he picked me up, He's seated like the entire world answers to him, black suit, no tie
He glances at me, "Give me your hand."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Give me your hand," he repeats
I stare at him, debating whether to or not. Finally, I slide my hand into his, smoothly, deliberately.
His hand, cold, steady.
Then he pulls something from his inner jacket pocket, a small, velvet box, he flips it open, and I nearly forgot how to breathe.
The ring is obscene.
An oval cut diamond, easily over four carats, set in a double band of solid gold, platinum kissed, with pave diamonds wrapped like a secret around the base.
Understated by billionaire standards, but still loud enough to shut a room up.
He takes my ring finger and slides it on, It fits like it was made for me.
"What's an engagement announcement," he says, "without an engagement ring?"
I should say something clever, but the weight of the diamond makes me forget how words work.
I look down at the ring, "So this is what being branded by Sinclair looks like."
Adrian doesn't respond immediately, he leans back against the seat, calm and unreadable.
"If you're going to answer my name," he says, "you might as well wear something that matches it."
I turn my hand slowly, watching the light catch "And here I thought you didn't care how things look."
"I'm engaged to a woman I barely know," he says "Who might ruin everything with the wrong smile."
"Relax," I murmured loud enough for him to hear "My smile's just as fake as yours."
Outside, the engine goes silent, a staff member approaches the door.
Adrian reaches over and opens it himself, steps out first, then pauses.
Offers his arm towards me "Let's get this over with."
I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, lightly, deliberately.
Our lives may be a deal
But we look like a dynasty.
…
The second we stepped inside, the room quiets.
A dozen cameras flash across the polished floor, catching the moment. Champagne flutes tilt, conversations pause, heads turn.
This isn't a celebration, It's a show of power.
The Sinclair estate's ballroom is massive, all cream walls and brutal chandeliers, old art, modern suits, quiet money, the kind of room where everyone already knows your name and your net worth.
Adrian doesn't break stride, doesn't scan the room
Me? I match his pace, shoulders back, chin high, my arm still tucked through his.
Then I spot Adrian's mother —Elaine Sinclair in an emerald dress, tall and statuesque with a face built for intimidation, she eyes me once, head to toe and says nothing.
Next to her, Nicholas Sinclair and his wife, perfect posture, impeccable style, zero warmth.
And finally, lounging off to the side like he couldn't care less, is the youngest Sinclair—paxton.
Well thanks to isla for filling me in on the family members.
At the far end of the room, I spot Richard Sinclair.
He's seated with my dad and beside them is a man I instantly recognize, silver haired, sharp eyed, dressed in a suit so tailored it probably came with a waiting list.
Lucien Cavendish.
Old money, tech empire, ruthless reputation, the kind of man who doesn't bother with PR because his numbers speak louder, my dad has talked about him.
They're mid conversation, calm, low voiced, everyone else keeps their distance.
We walk towards them.
Each step felt like a test I didn't sign up for.
As we approach, Richard and my father glances up.
"Lucien," Richard says, "Meet Adrian… and his fiancée."
Lucien turns his gaze on us, calm, dissecting.
Adrian doesn't smile, just offers a firm, clean handshake "Mr Cavendish."
Lucien's mouth twitches like he's deciding whether or not to be impressed "So you're the second Sinclair," he says.
"Pleased to meet you," Adrian said.
Lucien nods, then turns to me, his eyes don't linger too long, but long enough to make a point. "And you must be the woman this whole room is whispering about."
I offer a polite smile, just sharp enough "I prefer to give them something worth whispering."
That earns the smallest flicker of amusement from Richard, though he hides it behind his glass.
Lucien looks back at my Father "Well, at least she's not boring."
Richard finally speaks again, voice low. "The announcement will begin shortly."
Adrian gives a single nod.
…
Adrian and I are seated at the long central table alongside Richard, my father, Mr Cavendish, and a few other high ranking pillars of the economy.
Cameras flash quietly from a distance, no shouting, no crowding, just calculated observation.
Then we hear it.
A soft chime silver on glass.
All heads turn as Richard Sinclair rises from his seat.
He taps the rim of his champagne glass once more with his heavy silver ring.
Silence falls immediately.
"Thank you all for coming," Richard begins, voice even and unhurried, "Tonight's gathering was not originally designed for speeches, but it would be careless of me not to acknowledge a shift in the Sinclair legacy."
That word, legacy, hangs in the air like a challenge.
He pauses, letting the room breathe.
"My second son, Adrian, has made a decision, one that aligns both personal and professional interest."
A few discreet murmurs ripple through the audience.
Richard lifts his glass slightly and glances toward us "He is now engaged to Milana Monroe, daughter of Charles Monroe, founder of Alcrest Group."
Another silence.
Then a few heads turn as Charles Monroe steps forward to join Richard at the center.
"This union represents more than family. It's the beginning of a partnership between two names that understand the weight of reputation, resilience, and future." Father says.
Richard lifts his glass once more. "To the future and the expectations that come."
An applause
Wine Glasses raised
Nods exchanged
Power acknowledging power.
Adrian doesn't react, he's still, sharp edged beside me, not a hint of warmth in his stance.
The moment Richard's words settle into the room, the atmosphere shifts, cameras begin flashing more deliberately now, capturing every calculated angle of Adrian and me as we sit, composed, no one dares rush forward or shout for attention.
The press, well trained and perfectly distanced.
This is a business alliance dressed in diamonds and legacy, and every shutter click is a quiet attempt to immortalize it.
…
The ladies' restroom is quiet, marble drenched, and softly lit, as though even the lighting here was told to behave.
I stood in front of the mirror, hands braced on the edge of the counter, letting the silence soak into my skin.
Finally,
The door shuts behind me, muting the sound of music and champagne toasts.
No eyes, no cameras, just me.
It's official now, there's no undoing it.
I pull in a breath and let it out slowly before turning on the tap, cold water hits my palms, grounding. I watch it swirl away, trying to ignore the weight of expectations chasing it down the drain.
And then—
The sound of heels, confident, sharp, not rushed.
I glance at the mirror just as she steps out of one of the stalls, her reflection slipping into place beside mine like a calculated move on a chessboard.
Cierra Sinclair. Nicholas's wife
She doesn't smile, of course not. Women like her don't waste expressions unless they mean them. She's effortlessly elegant in a sculpted black dress, diamonds like ice at her ears. Even her silence has posture.
She steps up to the sink next to me, washing her hands with all the grace of someone raised by etiquette tutors.
"I have to say," she says mildly, drying her hands with a monogrammed towel, "you look stunning tonight."
I blink, then turn to face her, "Thank you."
She studies me for a beat, eyes cool, lips slightly curled. "Most girls would've crumbled walking into that room but you didn't, you played your part… beautifully."
My jaw tightens a fraction, "It's not a part if it's mine to play."
"well..you held your own tonight," she says
She tosses the towel into the bin and begins to fix her lipstick in the mirror.
"Congratulations," she says simply, her voice smooth. "You wear the ring well."
I glance at the diamond on my finger. "It knows how to sit pretty."
Cierra's lips twitch, not quite a smile, "Let's see how long it stays pretty."
She caps her lipstick, gives me one last look, measured, then leaves.
The door hisses shut behind her.
I stood there a second longer, then smooth my dress and walked out, spine straight.
---
The moment I stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of the lights and the low hum of wealth wrapped around me like a second skin.
Then I see him.
Adrian stands just ahead, one hand in his pocket, eyes scanning the crowd like he's bored of the room but aware of every person in it. When his gaze lands on me, it doesn't flicker, just holds.
He doesn't move, doesn't smile.
But I walked towards him anyway.
"You disappeared," he says as I reach him, voice low enough that only I can hear.
"I needed a moment," I said, meeting his eyes. "This whole night is a performance, even dancers take breaks."
His gaze drops briefly to the ring on my finger. "You held the spotlight just fine."
"Because I'm meant to, not because I enjoy the circus."
"You're not the only one pretending, Milana."
I tilt my head.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's not supposed to make you feel anything, that's me acknowledging facts."
Distant conversations echo from the ballroom behind us, polished voices, soft clinks of glass, the low hum of power being exchanged in tailored suits and measured smiles.
"You'll get used to it," he adds.
My voice is quiet, too controlled.
"Get used to what? The attention? Or the fact that I'm just a business deal?
"Don't expect more than what this is."
I inhale slowly through my nose, gaze holding his for a second longer than necessary, steady.
"That part's been done"
Then, without another word, I turned and walked out, my heels sharp against the marble floor, the cold tightening in my chest.