Taylor's POV-
I was told love is what unites families. Love is what keeps bloodlines strong, what makes sacrifices worthwhile. My father used to say that in public speeches too—always about "love," "unity," and "legacy." It sounded beautiful when it came from Timothy Sinclair, the man the world calls one of the most feared business moguls in America. People eat that shit up, because they don't know what it's like to be a Sinclair.
I'm Taylor, the first son of Timothy Sinclair. And my life? It's nothing like the polished magazine covers and billion-dollar headlines you see. My life is chaos wrapped in a designer suit. My life is scandal whispered in the corners of every boardroom. My life is a battlefield where family means competition and love… well, I stopped believing in love a long time ago.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing on the nightstand, dragging me out of a rare, dreamless sleep. I groaned, rubbing the crust from my eyes. The sun was already slicing through the blinds, too bright for someone who'd only gotten three hours of rest. I reached for the phone, ready to throw it against the wall.
"Taylor, where the hell are you?" Becky's voice was sharp, panicked, and very awake. Becky, my father's secretary and the only one who manages to keep me from completely losing my mind most days at the office. "The press conference starts in fifteen minutes!"
Shit. I shot up from bed. "Fifteen minutes?!"
"Yes, idiot! Fifteen! Your father is already losing it. You need to be here. NOW."
I ran a hand through my messy hair and glanced around my apartment. Empty whiskey glass on the coffee table, suit jacket crumpled on the floor and Shoes kicked off near the door—my life in a snapshot.
"I'm on my way," I said, already swinging my legs out of bed.
"Taylor, this is not just some meeting. He's announcing the new product today. Do not screw this up." Becky hung up before I could respond.
I cursed under my breath. Of course my father would drop a bombshell today. That's Timothy Sinclair for you—ruthless, calculated, and always ten steps ahead. He's fifty years old but looks forty, dresses like a king, and runs the Sinclair empire like a warlord. People don't say no to him—Ever.
I stumbled into the bathroom, splashing water on my face, trying to wake up. The reflection in the mirror didn't look like the polished CFO of a billion-dollar empire. I looked like a man haunted by his own life. The faint shadows under my eyes were a reminder of the nights I spent poring over numbers, fixing mistakes my younger brothers made and, of course, drinking myself into numbness when the memories of her crept in.
May—
Her name flashed like a ghost. My ex-wife. The woman who almost burned this family to the ground. I still don't know if she ever loved me, or if she married me just to get closer to the empire. Probably the latter. She left scars I can't see in the mirror but feel every time I try to trust someone new. I shoved the thought away, pulled on a crisp black suit from my closet, and headed out the door.
The ride to Sinclair Tower was chaos. New York traffic was a nightmare, and Becky called me three times in ten minutes, her voice getting sharper each time. By the time I pulled into the underground garage, I was already bracing myself for my father's wrath.
Sinclair Tower rose like a monument to power—fifty stories of glass and steel, the beating heart of our fashion empire. Inside, assistants in sleek black outfits buzzed around like bees, clutching tablets and phones, whispering nervously as I strode through the lobby. Heads turned, eyes followed me. That's the thing about being a Sinclair: no matter how messy your life is, people still look at you like you're royalty. The elevator ride felt like a countdown to hell.
When the doors opened to the press floor, chaos greeted me. Reporters lined the stage area, cameras flashing, microphones in hand. The Sinclair crest was displayed on a massive screen behind the podium, and my father stood near it, looking sharp in a custom navy suit. Clara Sinclair, my mother, sat elegantly in the front row, her face a perfect mask of grace and control. No one would guess that the woman in diamonds and silk was as ruthless as her husband.
"Taylor," my father barked as I approached. His tone was low but sharp enough to cut through the noise. "Late... again I see" he said while wearing a fake smile for the press.
"Traffic," I muttered.
"Traffic is an excuse for civilians, not Sinclair's," he said with his voice low, his eyes narrowing. "Fix your tie. You look like you just rolled out of bed." I bit back a retort and adjusted my tie.
Clara stood, gliding toward us like a queen. She kissed my cheek, her perfume overwhelming. "Darling, smile," she whispered. "This is a big day."
"Yes mom, I know. anything I should be worried about?" I asked, scanning the room.
"I'll let you know if any" she said with a smile that never reached her eyes. Great. That meant trouble.
My brothers were already seated. Richard sat straight-backed, looking like he owned the place. Jason was slouched in his chair, scrolling through his phone like he couldn't care less about the empire he was set to inherit one day. Billy was whispering to Riri, his manipulative girlfriend, both of them looking like they were plotting their next scheme. And Nathan… Nathan wasn't even pretending to care. He was fiddling with his phone too, probably texting his secret boyfriend. oops.
We were a picture-perfect family to the public, but I knew better. We were a ticking time bomb. The press conference began with my father stepping up to the podium, his voice booming and confident. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for joining us today. The Sinclair empire has always stood for excellence, ambition, and innovation. We have built a legacy that spans decades, and today, I want to share something personal."
The room fell silent. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.
"My family is my greatest achievement," Timothy continued, his eyes sweeping over us like a king surveying his heirs.
"The House of Sinclair has always been more than a brand. It is a symbol of power, ambition, and excellence. For decades, we've set the standard in fashion. And today, we raise it higher."
The screen behind him lit up, revealing a slow-turning 3D image of a sleek black shoe. You'd think he'd just cured cancer, judging by the gasps.
"This," my father continued, gesturing like a magician revealing his greatest trick, "is the Sinclair Sovereign. A design years in the making. Hand-stitched Italian leather. Custom gold detailing. Precision craftsmanship. This is not footwear. It's a statement."
I had to give it to him—he knew how to sell. The reporters scribbled furiously while photographers snapped away, trying to catch every detail.
"The Sovereign represents evolution," he went on, his voice dropping just enough to draw them closer. "It represents legacy. For decades, we have dressed presidents, icons, and leaders. The Sovereign is designed for the next generation of power. Because true power," he paused, letting the words sink in, "is rare."
The applause was deafening. Flashes lit up the room like a fireworks display. Clara leaned back in her seat, smiling like a queen, perfectly pleased with the spectacle. My brothers all sat stone-faced, but I knew what they were thinking: another way to remind the world that the Sinclair's aren't just rich—they're untouchable.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the performance. My father was a master at this. Every word, every movement was calculated to scream dominance. He wasn't just announcing a shoe; he was announcing that the Sinclair name was still the standard.
As assistants handed out press kits and the buzz of excitement filled the air, my father stepped back from the podium, smiling faintly. That smile told me something I'd known all my life—he was already three moves ahead. And if I knew him, today's spectacle was just the opening act.