Reign:
The car slides into the driveway of the Sinclair estate, headlights cutting across the manicured lawn in streaks of gold and shadow. Holt doesn’t speak. He never does when I’m about to descend into my own head, and I appreciate it. The silence is an accomplice.
Inside, the place smells of aged whiskey, leather, and faint cigars lingering like ghosts. The house hums with wealth and control, the kind that money alone can’t buy—discipline and danger woven into the walls. I follow Holt upstairs, not out of obedience, but because the study calls like a siren. My private sanctum. My chessboard.
“Dinner went… interestingly,” Holt says flatly, watching me over the rim of his glass.
I shrug, unbothered, leaning against the doorframe of my office. “Interesting? That’s one word for it.”
H
