I've been watching Theodore Sinclair for three months, and tonight, I'm going to get closer than ever before.
The blonde wig itches against my scalp, but I don't adjust it. Movement draws attention, and attention is the last thing I need. Instead, I remain perfectly still on the leather bench in the lobby of The Grand Sinclair, my eyes hidden behind plain tortoiseshell glasses as I pretend to read the latest issue of Architectural Digest.
The magazine is fitting, really. An article about luxury hotel design spreads across my lap, featuring the very building I'm sitting in. "The Grand Sinclair stands as a testament to modern opulence," the text reads, "a crown jewel in the Sinclair Empire's impressive portfolio."
Crown jewel. The words taste like ash in my mouth.
This building—this monument to wealth and power—was supposed to be ours. The Hartley Grand, my great-grandfather called it when he laid the first stone over a century ago. Four generations of my family poured their hearts into these walls, into the marble floors beneath my feet, into the crystal chandeliers that cast prismatic light across the vaulted ceilings.
Then Vivienne Sinclair decided she wanted it all for herself.
My fingers tighten on the magazine's glossy pages, creating a soft crumpling sound. I force myself to relax. Control. That's what Sienna always says. Control your body, control your emotions, control the situation.
I've gotten good at control over the past sixteen years.
The elevator across the lobby chimes, and my attention sharpens. A small group of men in expensive suits emerge, their laughter carrying across the space with the easy confidence of people who've never known struggle. But it's not them I'm interested in.
It's the man who follows them out.
Theodore Sinclair.
Even from across the lobby, his presence is commanding. He stands at least six-foot-three, his broad shoulders perfectly fitted in a charcoal three-piece suit that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. Dark hair, impeccably styled. Strong jawline. The kind of face that belongs on magazine covers—which it has, multiple times. Forbes, Business Insider, GQ. America's most eligible bachelor. The genius CEO who took over his father's empire at twenty-two and doubled its value in three years.
The man who inherited everything my family built.
My heart rate doesn't spike. I've trained it not to. But something cold and sharp unfurls in my chest as I watch him move through the lobby like he owns it.
Because he does.
He stops to speak with the concierge, and I use the moment to study him. I've seen him dozens of times over the past three months—through camera lenses, on security footage I shouldn't have access to, from carefully maintained distances. But every time, I find myself cataloging new details.
The way he tilts his head slightly when he listens, giving whoever he's speaking to his complete attention. The subtle gesture he makes with his left hand when he's giving instructions—two fingers raised, precise. The small scar near his right eyebrow that you can only see from certain angles.
And his eyes. Even from here, I know they're a cold steel gray that seems to see everything, assess everything, calculate everything.
"Dangerous," Sienna called him. "More dangerous than his father ever was because he hides it better."
She's right. Richard Sinclair is a blunt instrument—ruthless and obvious in his cruelty. But Theodore... Theodore is a blade wrapped in velvet. Smooth, charming, and utterly lethal.
My phone vibrates in my purse. I glance down at the screen.
Andrew: Missing you. Dinner tomorrow? ❤️
Guilt pricks at my conscience, but I silence it along with the phone. Andrew is a good man. Kind. Devoted. Everything a woman should want.
And I'm lying to him about everything.
He thinks I work as a freelance consultant, that my frequent absences are for client meetings. He doesn't know about the rental apartment across town where I store my disguises and surveillance equipment. He doesn't know about the conspiracy board covering one entire wall, Theodore's face at the center of dozens of photos and newspaper clippings. He doesn't know that when I kiss him goodnight, I'm thinking about revenge.
He doesn't know me at all.
Movement draws my attention back to Theodore. He's finishing his conversation with the concierge, checking something on his phone. His security detail—two men in dark suits who try to look inconspicuous and fail—hover nearby.
This is the moment I've been waiting for. According to the pattern I've documented over twelve weeks of surveillance, Theodore leaves through the main entrance at approximately 6:47 PM every Tuesday and Thursday. He has a car waiting—a black Mercedes S-Class—and his driver takes him to his penthouse in Tribeca. The route varies slightly, probably a security measure, but the timing is consistent.
Consistency is a weakness.
Theodore moves toward the entrance, his security flanking him. I close the magazine and stand, smoothing down the cream-colored pencil skirt I chose specifically to blend with the hotel's aesthetic. Neutral. Forgettable. Just another well-dressed woman in a building full of them.
I time my movement perfectly, walking at an angle that will intersect with his path near the revolving doors. Not too close. Not suspicious. Just... there.
As I approach, I allow myself one moment—one single moment—to truly look at him.
He's beautiful in the way predators are beautiful. All clean lines and controlled power. His suit jacket falls open slightly as he walks, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath, the slim cut of his vest. A platinum watch catches the light at his wrist. Understated. Expensive. Perfect.
I hate him.
I hate him so much I can taste it, bitter and burning at the back of my throat.
But I've learned to swallow hatred down, to let it fuel me rather than consume me. Christopher taught me that, in a way. My twin brother, who never got the chance to grow up, became more than a six-year-old boy who loved dinosaurs and held my hand when I was scared of thunderstorms.
'This is for you,' I think the way I do every single day. 'Every step I take is for you.'
I'm three feet away when Theodore's phone rings. He stops, pulling it from his pocket, and I'm forced to adjust my trajectory to avoid obviously hovering. I veer slightly toward the concierge desk, pretending interest in a display of hotel amenities.
"Marcus," Theodore says into the phone, his voice a deep baritone that carries just enough for me to hear. "I told you, the Monroe meeting is postponed until Friday."
Monroe. I file the name away. Another piece of the puzzle.
"Because," Theodore continues, a note of impatience entering his tone, "I have other matters to attend to. Yes. Fine. I'll call you later."
He ends the call with more force than necessary, jaw tight. Interesting. Theodore Sinclair rarely shows irritation. I've watched him maintain perfect composure through contentious board meetings, difficult negotiations, even a kitchen fire at one of his restaurants last month.
So what's different about this Monroe situation?
Theodore pockets his phone and resumes his path to the exit. I wait three seconds—long enough to not seem like I'm following—then move in the same direction.
That's when it happens.
One of his security guards—the shorter one with the buzz cut—turns slightly, his gaze sweeping the lobby in that methodical way trained security does. His eyes pass over me once, twice, then stop.
He's noticed something.
Ice floods my veins, but I keep walking, keep my pace steady and unconcerned. Maybe he's just being thorough. Maybe—
He says something into his wrist, speaking to his partner through a comm system I can't hear.
Damn.
The second guard, taller and broader, shifts his position, angling to get a better view of me.
They've marked me as a potential threat.
Every instinct screams at me to run, but running would confirm their suspicions. Instead, I do the only thing I can—I commit to my trajectory. I walk past Theodore and his guards, through the revolving doors, and out into the cool October evening.
My heart pounds against my ribs now, control be damned. I force myself to walk at a normal pace down Fifth Avenue, counting steps in my head. One block. Two.
At the third block, I risk a glance back.
The security guards haven't followed. They're still outside The Grand Sinclair, watching Theodore get into his car. But the shorter one is on his phone, no doubt reporting the incident to someone.
I duck into a Starbucks, heading straight for the bathroom. The face that stares back at me from the mirror is flushed, my green eyes too bright with adrenaline. I grip the edge of the sink, forcing slow breaths.
That was too close.
I've been so careful for three months—different disguises, different times, never the same pattern twice. But something about tonight triggered their attention. Did I linger too long? Make eye contact inadvertently? Break some unwritten rule of surveillance I haven't learned yet?
Or is Theodore Sinclair better protected than I thought?
I wait fifteen minutes before leaving the bathroom, the blonde wig now tucked in my oversized purse, replaced by a dark baseball cap pulled low. The glasses go into a side pocket. I'm just another young woman in jeans and a sweater now, completely different from the business-casual blonde in the hotel lobby.
It's not until I'm on the subway heading back to my surveillance apartment that I let myself really breathe.
My phone buzzes again. William this time.
William: Dinner this weekend? I barely see you anymore.
More guilt. My brother is working himself to death trying to rebuild what the Sinclairs destroyed, and I can't even tell him what I'm doing. Can't tell him that I'm not actually consulting for small businesses, that I'm stalking the man who took everything from us.
Because William would stop me. He'd lock me away again, like he did for sixteen years after Christopher died, convinced that keeping me hidden was the only way to keep me safe.
But I'm not a child anymore. I'm not the traumatized six-year-old who watched her twin brother die in the flames of The Hartley Grand as the Sinclairs stole everything we had.
I'm twenty-two years old, I have a degree in business and psychology, and I've spent the last six years training with Sienna—learning surveillance, self-defense, information gathering, how to disappear in plain sight.
I'm not hiding anymore.
I'm hunting.
The subway car lurches, and I grab the pole to steady myself. Around me, tired commuters stare at their phones, lost in their own worlds. None of them know that the woman in the baseball cap and cheap jeans is heiress to a dynasty that was supposed to rival the Sinclairs.
None of them know I'm going to war.
---
The surveillance apartment is in Queens, a neighborhood gentrifying just enough to have decent security but not so expensive that it draws attention. It's small—a studio with outdated appliances and thin walls—but it serves its purpose.
I lock the door behind me, engage the deadbolt, and allow myself to slump against it for just a moment.
The wall across from me is covered in my work. Photos of Theodore printed from surveillance footage, organized by date and location. Newspaper articles about Sinclair Empire acquisitions. A family tree I've painstakingly constructed, showing the connections between the Sinclairs and every major business family in New York. Financial records I probably obtained illegally. Blueprints of The Grand Sinclair and three other Sinclair properties.
And at the center of it all, the article from sixteen years ago.
TRAGEDY AT THE HARTLEY GRAND: CHILD KILLED IN FIRE DURING CORPORATE DISPUTE
The photo is grainy, but I don't need it to be clear. I have the image burned into my memory. Christopher's face, smiling in his school picture, before he knew what death was. Before he knew his own family's business partners were capable of murder.
I cross the room, pressing my fingers to the photo the way I do every night.
"I'm getting closer," I whisper. "I'm almost there."
My phone buzzes a third time. I expect it to be Andrew or William again, but when I check the screen, I see a notification from the fake social media account I created to monitor Sinclair Empire events.
New Event: Sinclair Foundation Charity Gala - October 30th at The Grand Sinclair. Exclusive invitation only.
October 30th. Two weeks away.
A gala means crowds. Means rich donors and politicians and the social elite of New York. Means Theodore will be distracted, working the room, maintaining his perfect public image.
It also means heightened security after tonight's close call.
But if I can get inside—if I can get past the guards and into the private areas of the hotel—I could access Theodore's office. His personal files. Maybe even find evidence of what his family did sixteen years ago. Evidence that would destroy them the way they destroyed us.
I open my laptop and start researching. Guest lists, security protocols, catering companies. Every detail matters. Every vulnerability is an opportunity.
By 2 AM, I have the beginnings of a plan.
By 3 AM, I'm messaging Sienna on our encrypted app: I need an invitation to the Sinclair gala. Can you make it happen?
Her response comes five minutes later: Cat, this is dangerous. If you get caught—
I won't get caught, I type back. Can you do it?
The pause is longer this time. Then: I'll see what I can do. But we need to talk about this. In person.
I close the laptop and walk to the window, looking out over the Queens skyline. Somewhere across the river, in his Tribeca penthouse, Theodore Sinclair is probably sleeping soundly in his expensive sheets, completely unaware that his reckoning is coming.
Or maybe he's not sleeping. Maybe he's working, building his empire higher and higher, thinking he's untouchable.
He's wrong.
I press my hand against the cold glass, watching my breath fog the window.
"I'm coming for you, Theodore Sinclair," I whisper to the night. "And when I'm done, you'll know exactly what you took from me."
My reflection stares back at me—pale, determined, with my mother's cheekbones and my father's stubborn jaw. But my eyes... my eyes have Christopher's light in them. The light that was extinguished sixteen years ago in a fire that never should have happened.
I'll carry it for both of us.
And I'll make sure Theodore Sinclair burns.