The tears came again, hot and angry, streaming down my cheeks as the city continued its indifferent march past the window. I pressed my palm against the glass, feeling the cold seep through, grounding myself in something tangible.
“Miss?” The driver’s voice cut through my spiral. “You okay back there?”
“I’m fine,” I lied, wiping at my face with the back of my hand. “Just keep driving.” But even as I said it, I realized we were slowing down, and the cab pulled to a stop in front of a building I knew too well. The elegant façade of Sinclair’s Manhattan residence, all old money and quiet power.
I didn’t remember telling the driver to come here, but my body had known before my mind caught up. Of course I’d come here. Where else would I go when I needed answers?
“This is it?” the driver asked, uncertainty in his voice.
“Yes.” The word came out stronger than I felt. “This is it.”
I paid him and climbed out, my pregnant body moving awkwardly, one hand braced against the car door for balance. The cool air was sharp against my tear-stained face, cutting through the fog of emotion that had carried me here.
The front door was unlocked. It generally was for family, for those who belonged in Sinclair’s carefully constructed world. I pushed through it without hesitation, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor of the entryway.
“Sinclair!” My voice rang out, sharp and demanding, as my words bounced off the high ceilings. “SINCLAIR!”
Mr. Conway appeared from somewhere in the depths of the house, his expression carefully neutral. “Dr. Jefferson, Mr. Sinclair is in his office.”
“I know where he is,” I growled, brushing past him, my anger giving me momentum, carrying me down the familiar hallway toward the room where so many of Sinclair’s machinations had been born.
The office door was open.
Of course it was.
He’d probably known I was coming before I did.
Sinclair sat behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his expression unreadable as he watched me storm into the room. He didn’t look surprised. Didn’t even look concerned. Just sat there with that infuriating calm, like he’d been waiting for me to arrive.
“Melissa,” he said quietly, setting down his glass. “I wondered when you would...”
“Don’t.” The word came out like a whip crack. “Don’t you dare sit there and pretend you didn’t orchestrate all of this. Don’t you dare act like you’re surprised to see me.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying me with those dark, calculating eyes that always saw too much. “You’re upset.”
“I’mfurious.” I moved closer to the desk, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “And you’re going to tell me why. You’re going to tell me everything, Sinclair. No more games. No more manipulation. No more carefully worded half-truths. Just the plain, factualtruth.”
“The truth is rarely simple, my dear.”
“Stop it!” My voice rose, cracking with emotion. “Stop with the philosophical bullshit. Stop treating me like I’m one of your chess pieces. I want answers, and I’m not leaving until I get them.”
Sinclair leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. For a long moment, he just looked at me, and I saw something flicker in his expression. Something that might have been respect or might have been resignation.
“What do you want to know?” he finally sighed, his voice softer than before.
“Why did Rowen leave?” The question tore out of me, raw and desperate. “Six months, Sinclair. Six months of nothing. Why?”
“Because I asked him to.”
His admission landed like a physical blow. I suspected it, of course. Deep down, I had known on some level that Sinclair’s fingerprints were all over Rowen’s disappearance. But hearing him say it out loud, hearing him claim responsibility so casually, made my blood boil.
“Youaskedhim to abandon me?” My voice shook now, barely controlled. “You asked him to leave me alone, to walk away from me.”
“I asked him to consolidate power over the Irish Mob,” Sinclair interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact. “I asked him to take control of the IRA and bring its various factions underone leadership, to create stability where there was chaos. And I asked him to do it in a way that would allow him to walk away when it was done.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. “Why?”
“Because the alternative was worse.” Sinclair stood, moving around the desk to face me directly. “The biker war was escalating. Sylvia St. James was making moves that threatened everyone—you, Rowen, Dante, the children. The Irish Mob was fractured, vulnerable, and easy to manipulate. Buchannon never really had control of it and was too old to do his job. If Rowen didn’t take control, someone else would have. Someone who wouldn’t have hesitated to use you as leverage.”
