Katherine Sinclair sat at the head of the boardroom table, her hands resting on the polished glass surface as the arguments around her stacked like noise on noise. Four months had passed since her father's death, and in that time, she had worn the title of Chairwoman as if it were armor. Armor that never seemed thick enough.
She was thirty-one. Young by boardroom standards, old enough to have proven herself as CEO in her father's shadow, but still too young in the eyes of her uncles, her father's oldest partners, and the men who circled Sinclair Dynamics like vultures. They had watched her grow up, watched her fight her way into the company's core divisions, and now they watched her with sharp smiles, waiting for her to stumble.
"Your father built Sinclair Dynamics on defense contracts," one uncle said for the third time that week. "This pivot to civilian technology, it dilutes the brand. The shareholders are uneasy."
Katherine kept her face still. She had heard the same line in different voices every day since taking over. Diluting the brand. Weakening the company. Not strong enough to protect the legacy.
Another cousin leaned back in his chair, his voice smoother. "We only want what's best for Sinclair. Perhaps a co-Chairman would steady the company. A male figure to balance the board's concerns."
The word male landed like a stone in the room. No one else needed to say it out loud.
Katherine folded her hands together, ignoring the tight pull at the back of her neck. She had spent her twenties working eighteen-hour days, building Sinclair Dynamics' civilian sector from scratch—AI, renewable energy, medical robotics, satellite networks. It was her vision that made the company a global name outside defense. It was why the press called her the "Visionary of Tomorrow."
Yet in this room, none of that mattered. To them, she was still her father's daughter. Too young, too female, too temporary.
When the meeting ended, she stood with practiced grace, walking out before anyone could linger to prod her further. By the time she reached her office, the adrenaline had faded, leaving the familiar exhaustion behind. She leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closing.
Four months. And every day since the funeral had been another war.
That night, when the city outside her windows glowed with steel and glass, Katherine sat at her desk long after her staff had gone. Reports stacked in front of her, contracts waiting for her signature, headlines flashing on the corner of her screen about Sinclair's uncertain future. She read none of it.
Instead, she pulled out her phone and opened a browser tab she hadn't touched in years. Travel.
Two weeks. Just two weeks away from the boardrooms, the whispers, the endless questions about her capability.
Italy. She scrolled through towns along the Amalfi Coast, her eyes catching on Positano—a village carved into the cliffside, its houses painted in warm colors that leaned toward the sea. Quiet, sunlit, nothing like the sharp-edged world she lived in.
For the first time since her father's death, Katherine let herself imagine breathing.
---
The air in Positano smelled of salt and lemon. Katherine sat at a quiet table near the balcony of a seaside bar, the kind where tourists sipped cocktails just to watch the sun melt into the water. She had been in Italy for two days, keeping to herself, her phone mostly switched off. No meetings. No contracts. Just silence.
It should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt like she was waiting for her body to remember how to relax.
"Scotch, neat," she told the waiter when he passed by.
Her hair was pulled back, sunglasses resting on the table. She knew she stood out. The kind of woman traveling alone always did, and the tailored simplicity of her dress didn't help—expensive fabrics were difficult to disguise, no matter how understated.
It wasn't long before someone noticed.
The man approached with the easy swagger of someone convinced he was charming. He was mid-thirties, collared shirt half-open, a tourist with more tan than sense.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, sliding into the chair opposite before she could answer.
Katherine kept her voice polite, clipped. "I prefer to drink alone."
He chuckled as though she had been teasing him. "Come on, bella, a woman like you shouldn't waste an evening without company."
Her jaw tightened. "Thank you, but no."
The waiter set down her drink. She took it, eyes fixed on the horizon, willing the man to take the hint.
But he leaned closer instead. "American?" he guessed. "Business? I could show you around. Best restaurants aren't on the map."
Katherine gave him a thin smile, the kind she used in boardrooms when men explained things she had written herself. "I'm sure they're not. Still, I'm fine."
This time, her tone cut deeper. He hesitated, the rejection clear at last. Muttering something under his breath, he pushed away from the table and disappeared back into the crowd.
The silence that followed was sharp, almost satisfying.
"Rough, uh?"
The voice came from the table beside hers. Low, calm, carrying the faintest trace of an Italian accent—so faint it almost slipped past unnoticed.
Katherine turned her head slightly. The man who spoke hadn't looked up right away. He was stirring the ice in his glass, casual in a way that made it clear he hadn't planned to interrupt. Dark hair, simple shirt, sleeves rolled up, no watch, no flash. He didn't look like a tourist, though he sat as if he had nowhere better to be.
"You get that a lot, don't you?" he added, still watching his drink.
Katherine studied him. She expected another line, some attempt to slide into the empty chair. Instead, he took a sip and leaned back, as though the conversation had already ended.
She surprised herself by answering. "More often than I'd like."
That made him glance her way, a quick flick of his eyes, dark and amused. "You handle it well. Most would throw the drink."
"I've considered it," she admitted, her mouth tugging into something that almost felt like a smile.
He smiled too, but not in the eager way the other man had. It was quieter, like he found the thought genuinely amusing. Then he let it fade and returned his attention to the view.
The exchange should have ended there. Katherine could have gone back to her scotch, he to his drink. But for the first time in days, she didn't feel the weight pressing down on her chest. She felt… lighter.
"You're not from here," she said before she could stop herself.
That earned her another glance. "No. And you?"
"Just visiting."
He nodded, as though that answer was complete. No questions about where from, what she did, why she was alone. Just silence again, comfortable this time.
Katherine rested her chin against her hand, studying him carefully. She had expected him to flirt. Every sign pointed to it. But he didn't. Somehow, he'd gotten her to speak when she hadn't wanted to, and he hadn't asked for anything in return.
For the first time in months, she kept the conversation going.
"What brings you to Positano?" she asked.
His mouth curved, a hint of a smirk. "A little of everything. Mostly, I like to watch."
"Watch what?"
"People." He lifted his glass, the ice clinking softly. "They're more interesting than the scenery, if you know where to look."
Katherine tilted her head, narrowing her eyes slightly. It was a strange answer. Strange, but not unwelcome.
And she realized, as the silence stretched again, that she wasn't in a hurry to leave.
---
To be continued...