Taylor's POV-
I've been in enough Sinclair board meetings to know they feel less like discussions and more like interrogations. The boardroom itself was a power play—glass walls with thick velvet curtains drawn for privacy, a twelve-foot mahogany table polished so well you could see your reflection, and black leather chairs that swallowed you whole. A massive Sinclair family crest hung on the wall, just in case anyone forgot who ran this empire.
Timothy Sinclair sat at the head of the table, posture perfect, suit immaculate, radiating that same old-school intimidation that had kept him at the top for decades. Clara was beside him, her composure flawless, her manicured nails resting lightly on the table like she owned the place. She probably did, in more ways than one. Billy sat opposite me, slouched back with that cocky, restless energy he couldn't shake.
The board members, five of them, sat scattered down the table, flipping through their tablets and notes, murmuring amongst themselves. But when my father cleared his throat, silence fell.
"Where the hell are your brothers, Taylor?" Timothy barked suddenly, turning his piercing gaze on me.
I shifted in my seat, keeping my face neutral. "Richard said he was busy with… uh, meetings. Jason didn't answer my calls."
Timothy's jaw clenched. "Meetings? With who? His drug dealer?" His voice dripped venom, sharp enough to make one of the board members flinch. "And Jason—" he slammed his palm on the table, making a pen jump, "—that lazy bastard. Always disappearing, always glued to that damn phone. What the fuck do I even pay him for?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but Clara's hand landed on his forearm. The movement was small, almost graceful, but it carried a weight only she could command. She leaned in close, whispering something in his ear, her face still composed, her smile soft enough to mask the tension. Timothy's glare softened, just a fraction.
"They're watching, Tim," she murmured softly, just loud enough for me to catch. "We have a reputation to uphold."
My father let out a low, annoyed grunt, leaning back in his chair. He smoothed his tie, and with that single gesture, he was back in control—like the outburst never happened. Clara had that effect on him—she was the only person alive who could tame Timothy Sinclair without losing a limb.
"Fine," Timothy muttered. "Let's get this started."
One of the board members, a balding man named Howard, cleared his throat. "Mr. Sinclair, the first item on the agenda is the upcoming women empowerment program. Mrs. Sinclair has the details."
Clara's smile widened. She loved these moments—the ones where she could shine without even trying. She adjusted her pearl necklace and clasped her hands neatly on the table.
"Thank you, Howard," Clara said smoothly. "This program is something close to my heart. We'll be launching the Sinclair Women's Initiative next month. It will provide business mentorship, funding opportunities, and scholarships for young women in underprivileged communities. The program is designed to elevate our brand as not just a symbol of power and luxury, but also a company that actively uplifts others."
She paused, glancing at me briefly before continuing. "We've allocated five million dollars for the first phase, focusing primarily on education and startup grants. This figure, of course, is scalable depending on future projections and publicity results. We'll also be hosting a gala to officially launch the initiative."
One of the other board members nodded approvingly. "Excellent positioning, Mrs. Sinclair. Philanthropy has always complemented the Sinclair brand image."
Clara's lips curved into a modest smile. She was good at this. Hell, she was better than most of us at this. While my father ruled with an iron fist, Clara worked behind the scenes, polishing our name, softening our edges just enough to keep us untouchable.
"Let's lock down a date for that gala," Timothy said, his voice firm but even now.
"How about three weeks from now?" Clara suggested. "That gives us time for proper press coverage and invitations to our investors."
Timothy nodded once. "Done. Make it happen."
Howard typed something on his tablet. The room buzzed briefly with whispers and note-taking, but Timothy's raised hand silenced them all. He turned his attention to me, his gaze sharp.
"Taylor."
"Yes, Dad?" I straightened instinctively.
"You're going to London next week. We've got a meeting with the foreign investors—our British partners are restless, and they want reassurance that the Sinclair brand is expanding at the pace we promised."
I blinked. "London? Next week?"
"Yes, London next week," Timothy snapped, as if I were an idiot for repeating it. "You're CFO. Start acting like it. I want you on a plane by Monday morning. You'll meet with our European team, lock down the expansion details, and ensure those investors leave happy. If they're not smiling, don't come back."
I forced a tight smile. "Understood." Across the table, Billy scoffed loudly.
"Something funny?" Timothy's tone turned razor-sharp.
Billy leaned forward, smirking like the arrogant brat he'd been since birth. "No, nothing funny, Dad. Just interesting how Taylor gets all the important assignments while the rest of us get sidelined."
Timothy's eyes narrowed. "You want an assignment? Earn it. Taylor is CFO for a reason. You're… what? Head of marketing? A position you've nearly screwed up twice this quarter alone. Sit down and shut the fuck up before I strip you of that title, too."
Billy's jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. "I'm just saying, it feels like some of us aren't being trusted. Maybe you should give the rest of us a chance to prove ourselves."
Clara's sharp voice cut through the tension. "Billy. Enough."
Billy glared at her, but Clara's expression was calm, cold, and utterly unbothered. "We don't need sibling rivalries in front of the board," she said, her tone like ice. "If you want your father's trust, you'll have to earn it through results, not complaints."
The board members exchanged wary glances, clearly uncomfortable with the family drama spilling into a supposedly professional setting. My father noticed it too. He straightened in his chair, letting out a deep sigh before addressing the room.
"Gentlemen, ladies," he said, his voice firm again, "let's get back to business. My family may not always see eye to eye, but make no mistake—this company remains a well-oiled machine. Now, the allocation for the women empowerment program is set. The London trip is assigned. Let's move on to the quarterly numbers."
The rest of the meeting droned on—profit margins, projections, marketing strategies—but my mind wandered. I kept glancing at Billy, who looked like he was one insult away from throwing a chair across the room. Clara was calm as ever, taking notes and whispering directions to her assistant when necessary. Timothy remained in command, firing questions at the board with military precision.
Hours later, when the meeting finally adjourned, the board members filtered out, their polite smiles hiding whatever judgments they'd formed. Clara excused herself to take a call, and that left me alone with my father and Billy.
Timothy leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. "You'd better not screw this up, Taylor," he said without looking at me. "London is crucial. If those investors even sense weakness, this expansion dies. I won't tolerate failure."
"I won't let you down Dad" I said quietly.
"You'd better not." He stood abruptly, straightening his jacket. "Billy, stop sulking. Grow a backbone or get out of my sight."
Billy's eyes narrowed. "You always play favorites. One day, Dad, you'll regret that."
Timothy smirked coldly. "The only thing I'll regret is not firing you sooner if you don't start producing results." With that, he walked out, leaving Billy and me alone.
Billy turned to me, his face twisted with bitterness. "Must be nice being the golden boy," he sneered. I sighed. "Don't start with me, Billy. I didn't ask for this."
"Yeah, well," he spat, grabbing his jacket, "enjoy London. I'm sure it'll be another chance for Dad to parade his perfect son around while the rest of us rot here."
He stormed out, the door slamming behind him. I stayed in the boardroom for a while, staring at the polished table, the crest on the wall, the empty chairs. This was the Sinclair empire—power, wealth, fear. And yet, it felt like a cage.
London was supposed to be a business trip, but I knew better. It was a test. And if I failed, I wouldn't just lose my father's approval—I'd lose everything.