At the Women Empowerment site,>>>>>
The ballroom smelled like fresh flowers—Chandeliers glimmered overhead, bouncing light off the crystal vases and golden centerpieces that lined every table. Clara Sinclair stood in the center of it all, arms folded neatly, lips pursed in approval and disapproval all at once, her sharp eyes scanning every detail like a hawk circling prey.
"No, no, no," she snapped at one of the decorators, pointing at a floral archway near the stage. "That arrangement is sloppy. Raise the roses higher and adjust the lighting. This is a women's empowerment gala, not a funeral service. Make it vibrant. Fix it now."
The decorators scrambled to follow her orders, and Clara glided toward another group of staffers adjusting the velvet drapes. She barely raised her voice, but people moved quickly when Clara Sinclair was in the room. She had that effect—one arched brow could terrify even the boldest man.
"This table here needs to be reserved for the board's wives," she instructed a hostess. "Add name cards. And the media wall—God, straighten that backdrop. If I see a single crease, you're fired." The hostess nodded nervously and scurried off.
Clara exhaled softly, smoothing her perfectly tailored cream suit jacket. The House of Sinclair logo glimmered in gold embroidery on the event banners surrounding the massive ballroom. This wasn't just an empowerment gala—it was branding on steroids. Public relations at its finest. Her husband's company might have been built on ruthless deals and calculated destruction, but today? Today was about soft power.
"Mrs. Sinclair!"
The voice was high-pitched and breathless. Clara turned sharply to see a young woman barely in her twenties approaching her, clutching a phone like it was a lifeline. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into an inexpensive skirt, but her eyes sparkled with admiration.
"Yes darling?" Clara's voice was cool but polite, that perfected 'queen addressing her subjects' tone.
"Oh my God, it's really you!" the young woman gasped, practically bouncing on her heels. "I… I've seen you on television so many times! You're incredible! You're like… everything I want to be one day."
Clara gave her best PR smile, the one that softened her sharp features but never reached her eyes. "That's very kind, dear," she said smoothly. "And you are…?"
"Maria Lopez!" the girl squealed. "I follow all your interviews. I've read everything about the House of Sinclair! You're so inspiring! You built an empire and still manage to stay so… graceful."
Clara tilted her head modestly, though inside she smirked at how well her crafted image had worked. Graceful. Ruthless was more accurate, but perception was everything.
"That's sweet," Clara replied, reaching out to touch the girl's hand briefly. "And what do you do, Maria?"
"I'm a fashion student!" Maria beamed. "I study design, but my dream is to be a model, to walk in big shows. One day I want to model for the Sinclair brand. I even sent in an application for the scholarship program you will be hosting soon!"
Clara's interest sharpened slightly. She scanned Maria's face and posture with the precision of a seasoned businesswoman. The girl had potential—tall, good bone structure, and raw excitement that could be molded into something marketable.
"Well," Clara said with a small smile, "you certainly have the passion."
Maria's cheeks flushed pink. "Would you… would you mind if we took a photo together? It would mean everything to me."
Clara glanced at her assistant, who nodded discreetly. Cameras were good. People loved seeing Clara with 'everyday women.' She turned back to Maria, offering a faint but genuine smile. "Of course, darling. Let's make it quick. I have a lot of things to do."
Maria nearly squealed, fumbling with her phone as she positioned herself beside Clara. The older woman rested one perfectly manicured hand on Maria's shoulder, tilting her chin slightly toward the camera, striking that flawless Sinclair smile that had been plastered across dozens of magazines.
"Perfect," Maria breathed after snapping a few pictures. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Sinclair!"
"You're welcome, dear," Clara said smoothly. She reached out, placing a hand gently on Maria's forearm. "Tell me more about your dreams, Maria. Why modeling?"
Maria blinked, surprised at the interest. "Because… I love the way fashion can tell stories," she said softly. "When I was a kid, we didn't have much. Clothes were… hand-me-downs from cousins, thrift store finds. But every time I saw a magazine or a runway show, I felt like I could be someone else, even for a moment. I just… I want to inspire people the way you do. I want to show girls like me that we can be seen."
Clara studied her, her sharp expression softening just a fraction. "You have ambition," she murmured. "I like that." Maria's eyes widened. "Thank you."
Clara gestured toward her assistant. "Write her name down," she said. "Maria Lopez. I want her added to the scholarship list." Maria gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Wait… are you serious?"
"Very serious darling," Clara replied smoothly. "Come as my personal guest tonight. Consider it an invitation to something greater."
Maria's eyes welled with tears, and she clasped Clara's hands tightly. "Thank you ma… oh my God, thank you! You don't know what this means to me."
Clara patted her hand with a gracious smile. "I know exactly what it means," she said softly, her tone layered with both warmth and calculation.
Maria was ushered off by an assistant, buzzing with excitement, while Clara turned back to overseeing the ballroom preparations. Her expression shifted instantly from warmth to steel.
"Move those floral arrangements two inches to the left," she barked at a decorator. "And where is the lighting team? If I see one more shadow on that runway, heads will roll."
Her phone buzzed. Clara slid it out of her purse and answered without glancing at the caller ID. "Yes."
"Madam, the media's already setting up outside," her head of PR said nervously. "They're saying this will be our biggest coverage yet."
"It had better be," Clara said curtly. "This gala isn't just about women's empowerment—it's about the Sinclair brand leading the conversation. I want every camera capturing perfection."
"Yes, ma'am."
She hung up, her eyes scanning the ballroom again. It was almost ready. Around an hour after intensive orders and work, the ballroom had transformed into a glimmering paradise of luxury and prestige. The massive Sinclair logo was projected on the walls, and a line of photographers waited near the entrance, flashing bulbs popping with every step Clara took. She greeted donors, shook hands with early arriving guest, and posed with influencers like she was royalty.
The Sinclair's Mansion>>>>>
Downstairs, the Sinclair mansion was quiet, almost too quiet, like the whole house was holding its breath. Nathan sat curled up in an oversized armchair in the study, a thick novel resting in his lap. The smell of polished mahogany and old paper hung in the air, making the room feel like a cocoon away from the chaos that usually filled their home.
"Coffee?" a soft voice said from the back.
Nathan looked up to see Nanny Carlota standing in the doorway, her kind smile instantly softening the sharp edges of the mansion. She'd been with the family since before he could remember, practically raising him when his parents were busy building their empire.
"Thanks, Carlota," he said, taking the warm cup she offered. She perched on the edge of the desk, watching him with fond eyes. "I remember when you couldn't sit still long enough to read one page," she teased. "Now look at you, all grown up, hiding in here with your books."
Nathan smirked, sipping his coffee. "Guess I grew up."
"Not too much, I hope," she said, ruffling his hair like she used to. Their laughter filled the quiet room, and for a moment, it felt like home. Then Nathan's phone buzzed. He sighed when he saw the caller ID.
"Mom," he muttered.
"Answer it, niño," Carlota said softly.
"Nathan," Clara's voice was sharp but smooth. "Where the hell is your father?"
"I don't know, maybe his on his way?" Nathan replied.
"I need you at the Women's Initiative site. Now. Look presentable."
Nathan groans as the line went dead before he could respond—that word 'look presentable' made his skin boil. Nathan finished his coffee, offered Carlota a tired smile, and stood. "Duty calls."