SINCLAIR

The scent of roasted garlic and truffle oil clung to Ellie Allen’s skin as she adjusted her chef’s jacket and stared at the plated desserts lined up under the bright kitchen lights. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, but her pulse was racing. Every plate she touched, every garnish she adjusted, carried the weight of her future. The Sinclair Gala. The name alone was enough to make her stomach churn. Old money. Quiet power. The kind of people who could end your career with a glance. She didn’t belong here, and she knew it—but she’d fought for this catering job because this night could change everything. “Ellie!” her supervisor barked. “Final course. Let’s go!” She took a breath, balanced the tray of soufflés, and pushed through the swinging doors. Instantly, the room swallowed her. Crystal chandeliers. Gold accents. A sea of designer gowns and sleek tuxedos. She kept her head down and moved quickly through the maze of luxury. But halfway across the room, a strange sensation rippled down her spine. Like she was being watched. She shouldn’t have looked. She knew better. But she did. And her eyes met his. Salvador Sinclair. Leaning against a marble column like he owned the air in the room. He was taller than she expected, dressed in black-on-black, his presence both understated and impossible to ignore. His gaze was unreadable—sharp, assessing, and locked on her like she’d just committed a crime. Ellie’s steps faltered. She looked away quickly, setting the tray down with more force than she meant to. Her face flushed with heat. Get a grip, she told herself. He probably looks at everyone like that. But something about it lingered. As if he’d seen past her white jacket and quiet movements. As if he knew she didn’t belong. She headed back toward the kitchen, hoping to disappear into the walls. But fate had other plans. “Hey,” a voice slurred behind her. Ellie turned and found herself face-to-face with Billy Hargrave, one of the Sinclair family’s lesser associates. He was already three glasses past his limit, his bowtie undone and eyes glazed over. “You made the duck, right?” he said, too close. “I swear, I’ve never tasted anything like it. You’ve got magic hands.” She stepped back. “Thank you, sir, but I need to get—” He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t rush off,” he said with a grin. “I was hoping you could serve me something a little more… personal.” Her skin crawled. “Let go,” she said sharply, voice low. But he didn’t. Not until another voice—cool, clipped, and unmistakably commanding—cut through the tension like ice. “She said to let go.” Both Ellie and Billy froze. Salvador Sinclair had appeared behind them, silent and sudden, like a shadow slipping between cracks in the floor. His hands were in his pockets, posture relaxed, but his voice carried weight. Billy dropped her wrist immediately. “I didn’t mean anything, Salvador. Just a bit of fun.” Salvador’s expression didn’t change. “Try your fun somewhere else.” Billy muttered an apology and stumbled off, disappearing into the crowd. Ellie rubbed her wrist, biting back a mix of anger and embarrassment. “Thanks,” she said flatly. “But I had it under control.” Salvador’s gaze lingered on her face a moment longer than necessary. “It didn’t look that way.” “I don’t need rescuing,” she said, more defensive than she intended. “Good,” he replied. “Because I wasn’t rescuing you. I just don’t like cleaning up messes at my family’s events.” Ellie blinked. The jab hit harder than she expected. “Charming,” she muttered under her breath. Salvador tilted his head slightly, amused—but cold. “You’re the chef, aren’t you?” “Yes.” “You cook better than you handle situations.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you judge better than you mind your own business.” For a brief moment, their stares collided again—less heat this time, more sparks. He said nothing. Just gave a faint smirk, turned, and walked away like the conversation had already bored him. Ellie stood frozen, heart pounding. What the hell was that? She didn’t know whether she wanted to slap him… or prove him wrong. Either way, Salvador Sinclair had just burned himself into her memory. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. ⸻ W