Eleanor:
I’ve endured enough formal dinners to know they’re all the same—fake smiles, stiff suits, and the scent of desperation hidden under cologne.
But tonight, it’s worse.
Tonight, the air in the Windsor dining room is thick enough to choke on.
Every surface gleams: the chandelier dripping light like liquid gold, the long table set in crystal and silver, the china so white it could blind you. Everything is perfect. Controlled. Composed.
Except him.
Reign Sinclair lounges at the far end of the table like he owns the place, one arm over the chair, whiskey sloshing lazily in—God help me— in a wine glass.
A wine glass.
My father sits at the head of the table, talking with Holt Sinclair about business mergers and city contracts as if their children aren’t the pawns in their dirty lit
