Sinclair Enterprises didn't just sit in the heart of the city—it loomed, a tower of steel and glass that seemed to look down on everything beneath it. The skyscraper sparkled under the late-morning sun, its mirrored windows catching and scattering light like a beacon. For decades it had stood as a monument to ambition, to Timothy Sinclair's refusal to ever be second best. People walking on the streets below would glance up at it, whisper its name, and in hushed tones remind each other: 'That's where the real power lives'
Inside, the building pulsed with energy. Secretaries clattered across marble floors in stilettos, interns carried stacks of files with nervous faces, executives swept by with clipped voices and urgent phone calls. Every floor had its own rhythm, but none as intense as the top levels—the domain of Timothy and his heirs. Here, wealth and power hung in the air like perfume. Conversations were sharper, glances heavier and mistakes costlier.
Taylor's POV–
The office had always been my sanctuary. Numbers didn't lie. They didn't flatter, didn't stab you in the back, didn't whisper poison in your ear. They were simple, precise, and brutally honest. Something most people in my family couldn't pretend to be.
This morning was no different. I sat behind my desk, eyes fixed on the rows of figures sprawled across two glowing monitors. Financial reports, expenditure sheets, forecasts. They spoke to me like a language I'd long since mastered. Where others saw digits and charts, I saw patterns, truths, vulnerabilities. The company had survived generations because someone bothered to look beneath the gloss of parties, galas, and empty branding. Someone had to keep us from bleeding out quietly. That someone was me.
I adjusted my glasses, scribbling a note in the margin of the quarterly review. Nothing unusual—except the numbers told me something was stirring again. Subtle, but not invisible. A new requisition flagged. Two million dollars, requested under the vague umbrella of "branding and expansion." No breakdown nor projections, no attached plan. Just a number, hanging there like a predator in the dark. I didn't need a signature to know who was behind it.
Jason!.
The thought alone was enough to make my jaw tighten. My younger brother's 'projects' had been plaguing this company for years. Galas that were little more than glorified orgies. Investments that went nowhere. Sponsorships that ended up as thinly veiled vacations. Every time, he dressed it up as strategy, as "image," as "vision." And every time, it was indulgence.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing at my temple. If Father had been stricter with him years ago, maybe things would be different now. But Jason had been spoiled from the cradle, and now he thought of the Sinclair empire as his personal bank. And here I was again, the wall between his chaos and the company's survival.
The thought had barely settled when the inevitable happened. The double glass doors swung open with no knock. Jason Sinclair strolled in like the room already belonged to him. His shirt was half-buttoned, tailored jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. His hair was styled, but not enough to hide the faint disarray of another late night. The scent hit me before his words did—overpowering cologne laced with alcohol, maybe even perfume.
He smirked as though the world owed him that smile. "Morning, big brother," Jason drawled mockingly, dropping into the chair opposite my desk without waiting for an invitation. He lounged back, legs stretched out to my table—rude, arrogance dripping from every movement. "Let's not waste time. Approve my request I've got work to do" I didn't look up immediately. Instead, I finished marking the file in front of me, deliberate and calm. "What request?"
Jason leaned back further, balancing on two chair legs as though he had all the time in the world. "What the fuck do you mean by what request? don't play dumb with me. The two million project funds. Finance flagged it yesterday. I know you've seen it." I closed the folder slowly and met his eyes. My voice was measured, steady. "Two million dollars. For what, exactly?"
His grin widened. "Expansion. Branding. A few events lined up in Miami and L.A. You know—things that keep us relevant. The old man eats that kind of stuff up. Let's not bore each other with the fine print. Just stamp it."
A humorless laugh escaped me. "Company image? You mean your yachts. Your clubs. Your women. That's not branding, Jason. That's indulgence."
His smirk faltered, jaw tightening. "And what was that supposed to mean? watch it Taylor." I leaned forward, clasping my hands together on the desk. "No—you watch it. This company isn't your piggy bank. Not anymore. You've bled enough out of it already."
The mask slipped. Jason slammed his fist onto the desk, rattling pens and scattering papers. His voice rose, sharp and venomous. "You think you're better than me? Sitting here hiding behind numbers? Numbers don't build an empire, Taylor. Vision does."
I didn't flinch. I'd seen his tantrums before. "Vision without discipline destroys. I've spent years cleaning up after your 'vision.' Parties dressed up as galas. Failed ventures disguised as investments. You think no one sees through it? The board does. Father does. And I certainly do." Jason shot to his feet, "You're really going to sit there, and tell me you won't sign it?"
Taylor's pen tapped once against the desk before he set it down. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. No plan. No approval." Jason scoffed. "Ok, let's all calm down. It's two million, Taylor. Two—Million. Do you have any idea how small that is compared to the value of this company? You're acting like I'm asking for the crown jewels."
Taylor's jaw tightened. "Small leaks sink ships, Jason. And every 'just two million' you've pulled has stacked into a mountain of debt I've had to clean up."
Jason slammed a hand on the desk, making papers jump. "Debt? Please. What you call debt, I call investment in our image. This brand doesn't sell itself. The world needs to see us. Miami, L.A.—that's how we stay relevant."
Taylor's voice stayed calm, but his eyes hardened. "The company isn't your personal runway. Relevance isn't measured in champagne bottles and nightclubs."
Jason leaned forward, his voice dropping into a snarl. "And what do you know about relevance? You sit in here all day with your spreadsheets, acting like numbers matter more than influence. Wake up—this empire was built on bold moves, not penny-pinching."
Taylor pushed the folder across the desk, firm. "Bold moves come with strategy. With foresight. You don't gamble an empire on parties and call it vision."
Jason barked a bitter laugh. "There it is. The self-righteous act. You love this role, don't you? Playing gatekeeper. Pretending you're the one holding everything together."
Taylor's voice sharpened. "Pretending? Look around you, Jason. Who kept the board from cutting you out after your last disaster? Who covered the losses when your 'vision' collapsed? I did. Me. Not you."
Jason shot to his feet, jabbing a finger at him. "You're making a mistake. When Father steps down, this company is mine. And when I'm in charge, you'll regret every time you said no to me."
Taylor stood too, matching his height. "If running this company means enabling you, then I'd rather burn every request you ever bring me. Not a cent, Jason. Not this time.".Jason's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing into a dangerous glint. He grabbed the folder, shoved it under his arm, and sneered. "Fine. But remember this moment, brother. You just declared war."
The door slammed behind him, rattling the frame. Taylor exhaled slowly, unclenching his fists. The office was silent again, but Jason's threat hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. My desk was a mess, reports scattered like leaves in a storm. I gathered them one by one, stacking them neatly, as though order could erase the chaos Jason left in his wake.
But his words lingered. 'You'll regret this' Jason wasn't the type to bluff. I sank back into my chair, eyes drifting over the spreadsheets still glowing on my monitors. For the first time, the numbers didn't feel steady. They didn't feel safe. They felt like warnings, storm clouds written in digits, whispering of trouble yet to come. And I couldn't shake the gnawing sense that the real fight hadn't even begun.