Melissa’s voice sliced through the thick haze of the room, sharp and fierce. “No!” she snapped, her glare fiery as she faced Sinclair. The air, mixing with the heavy scent of leather and stale coffee. “Absolutely not!” she declared, her words reverberating against the walls.
Sinclair, unmoved by Melissa’s outrage, turned his gaze—cold and calculating—toward Ghost. The chill of their standoff permeated the room, raising goosebumps along my arms, knowing the young woman was about to see the real Crispin Sinclair.
“Dr. Jefferson,” Sinclair drawled, his voice smooth as steel. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. I’m speaking to your man—unless he’s lost his voice?”
Ghost, jaw set and eyes blazing, stepped forward defiantly. The floorboards creaked beneath Ghost’s boots as he moved, his presence radiating heat and tension. “Yeah, I can speak for myself,” he growled, his voice gravelly, simmering with challenge. “But you owe me an explanation. Why the hell me?”
Sinclair leaned back, the leather chair groaning under his weight, lips curling into a sly, unwavering grin. “Because,” he replied, voice low and deadly, “if you protect my son, I’ll make damn sure your woman remains untouched. That’s the deal I’m offering.”
Melissa’s frustration snapped, her voice trembling with passion as she tried to cut through the tension. “I can take care of myself—” she started, but Ghost—his eyes now cold, voice like thunder—interrupted, “Melissa, stop. Just stop.” His shout echoed over the creaking boards, commanding silence.
The air grew taut with uncertainty as Ghost’s boots hit the floor in heavy, deliberate steps. Sinclair’s desk loomed between them, a barrier as much as a focal point. Melissa’s hands quivered, her knuckles white as she clung to the edge of her resolve, eyes darting between the two men. The weight of expectation pressed on every chest, breaths shallow—would this moment break into violence or surrender? Ghost’s voice rumbled, colder than steel. “Don’t mistake me for someone you can bully, Sinclair. Threaten my family again, and you’ll regret it.”
Sinclair’s reply cut through the room like ice against flesh. “It wasn’t a threat, Mr. Foley,” he said, voice tinged with a weariness that came from years spent clawing his way to the top. “When you’ve built everything from nothing, when you’ve seenpeople you trusted gut you over scraps, you learn to state truths plainly.”
He leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking beneath him, eyes narrowing with the certainty of a man who’d weathered too many betrayals. In the stale, coffee-laced air, his words felt less like a negotiation and more like fate grinding forward, unstoppable. The fluorescent overheads flickered, casting sharp shadows across Sinclair’s face—a reminder of the hard edges he’d earned in backroom deals and blood-soaked alleys. The way his gaze pinned each of us left no doubt: he was a man who had never stopped fighting for control, whose every word was calculated to remind us he held the chessboard.
His confidence settled over the room like a heavy shroud. No one moved; even Melissa’s fingers, white-knuckled at her sides, trembled just enough to betray her fear. The subtle scent of cologne and sweat mingled with the metallic tang of tension, every breath taut with the knowledge that Sinclair’s kind of power came at a cost.
The brutal truth was, he did hold all the cards—and he knew it.
I’d watched Sinclair’s ascent from nothing to kingmaker—a journey paved with threats, manipulation, and a ruthless pragmatism born from surviving a betrayal and the life that nearly destroyed him. His ambition wasn’t just about control; it was about never being powerless again, about building something untouchable so he would never beg or break as he once had. Everyone in the cramped, overheated office could sense it—the way his jaw clenched, the flicker of old wounds behind his calm exterior. Sinclair didn’t need to threaten; his reputation, and the haunted look in his eyes, did the talking.
The silence that followed was brittle, stretching between us like glass—one wrong move and it would shatter. I wondered, not for the first time, if anyone here truly understood what it wasto go to war with a man who’d already survived worse than any threat we could muster.
Neither man moved; their gazes remained locked—a silent battle where neither was willing to blink first. It was a clash of stubborn wills, and deep down I knew Sinclair would come out on top.
Melissa’s grip tightened on Ghost’s arm, her voice barely above a whisper, raw with emotion. “Travis, you don’t have to do what he wants. We could just leave, take Dante and Dani, and disappear.” Her eyes pleaded for any sign of agreement.
Sinclair’s tone was flat, uncompromising. “My son and granddaughter stay here. That’s not up for discussion.”
Melissa’s voice shook as she shot back, “She’s my daughter, Sinclair!”
Sinclair’s reply was cold, his words slicing through the room. “No, she’s not, Dr. Jefferson. Danika is my son’s biological daughter. You haven’t adopted her—not legally. You have no claim here. If you keep pushing, you’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
Melissa spun around, desperate, searching Dante’s face for backup. He sat on the edge of the sofa, hands pressed together, his gaze glued to the floor, shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for impact.
“Dante, please. Tell him he’s wrong,” Melissa begged, her voice cracking under the strain.
Dante finally looked up, his face devoid of color. He hesitated, swallowing hard before answering. “I wish I could, Mellie. But Sinclair deals in facts. The judge still hasn’t signed off on the adoption. I know you love Danika. Sinclair is not questioning that, but we left before Judge Markham could meet with us,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And because we live in Nebraska, the papers have to be filed there.”
Melissa’s desperation flared. “So you’re just going to let Sinclair tell us how to live?” She fought to keep her voice steady.
Dante gave a small, sad shrug, his eyes flickering between Melissa and Sinclair. “It’s not that simple, Mellie. He’s my dad. I told August the same thing after I found out he was my biological father. Sinclair’s the one who raised me, taught me, kept me safe, even when I didn’t want him to. I know he’s rough around the edges, but he’s only looking out for us—even if his version of ‘protecting’ sucks sometimes.”
Sinclair cut in, businesslike. “We can play nice later. Right now, I need an answer, Mr. Foley. Are you going to protect my son or not?”
Chapter Ten
Rowen
The flight from North Carolina to Albin, Wyoming, unfurled beneath a canopy of muted gray, the silence in the cockpit stretching as taut as the distant horizon. The hum of the engine vibrated up through the seat and into my bones, but even that was not enough to drown out the heaviness in the air.
Ghost sat beside me, his posture rigid against the faded leather, eyes fixed on nothing—or perhaps everything—beyond the glass. His breath fogged the window with each slow exhale. I watched the way his hands gripped the armrests, knuckles whitening as if he could anchor himself against the ache of what he’d left behind. The decision he’d carried with him was a weight that pressed the edges of the cockpit, leaving no room for words. I felt it, thick and relentless, and ached with the knowledge that Melissa had not come to the door when we drove away from the beach house. Her absence lingered like a shadow, and the loss settled heavily in the pit of my stomach.
Before we left, Ghost embraced Roxy and Dante, his farewells hushed and brief. He pressed his lips gently to Danika’s cheek—a gesture so tender it seemed to hover in the air, trembling and unfinished. He carried only a single duffel bag, its canvas sides slumped as though it, too, felt the burden of parting. Through Sinclair’s office window, I saw Sinclair’s eyes, glassy and impassive, following our every movement—the chill in his gaze unmistakable; yet he remained distant, as if the pain unfolding below was not his to share. Melissa stood at a window downstairs, her body nearly folding beneath the weight of grief.Her forehead rested against the cold pane, shoulders quaking, her fingers pressing the glass so hard that her knuckles paled to ivory. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks as her lips parted in soundless agony. She stayed motionless, refusing to look away until the SUV rolled onto the gravel and disappeared, at which point she collapsed back from the glass, arms wrapped around herself as if to hold in all that threatened to break free.
Watching Sinclair, I felt a sharp, bitter heat rise in my chest. Hatred was a simple word, but what I felt was more complicated—a mix of anger and helplessness that burned at the back of my throat.
