A new life
921 Words
“How will you become the chairman when you don’t even have a family?”
Damien Sinclair had everything. Looks. Money. Power. What else does a man need to live a comfortable life?
At 24, he was already the CEO of a billion-dollar real estate conglomerate. Women including older women threw themselves at him. Boardrooms went silent when he spoke. His name alone opened doors.
The press had even named him the most eligible bachelor of L City.
His life was perfect. Almost.
There was one person he couldn't control: his grandfather, the man who had raised him. The only man whose approval still mattered.
“You’re a Sinclair,” his grandfather had barked.
“You don’t waste time. You build a legacy.” “You have everything you need, why are you hesitating?” “How will you become the chairman when you don’t even have a family?”
In the past five months, Damien had been on eleven blind dates.
He canceled nine before they even started. Walked out on one halfway through. The last ended with a girl throwing a glass of wine in his face after he told her he had more chemistry with his espresso.
His grandfather was relentless. But his grandaunt Lucy, the only person the old man listened to, had finally stepped in with a compromise.
“If Damien doesn’t want to marry your chosen candidate, let him find someone himself. On one condition: they must be engaged within sixty days.”
It was a ridiculous arrangement to him. A trap. But Damien had agreed, if only to shut them both up.
He didn't have someone he was seeing. He hadn’t dated anyone his whole life. He had never been in love and he wasn't at the moment. And his grandfather was hell-bent on him getting married; he didn’t take him seriously until he started fixing one blind date after the other.
And now, all he needed was a fiancée. Temporary. Convenient. Someone who wouldn’t get attached.
And then, for the first time since he left the hotel…
He thought of her.
The lady in the black dress. The girl with haunted eyes and a laugh that didn’t belong to a stranger. The girl who hadn’t known or cared about who he was. The girl he hadn’t been able to forget.
They had chemistry.
She was perfect. The perfect fake fiancée.
Lana’s POV
The morning came faster than I wanted.
I pulled my hair into a neat bun, letting a few loose strands frame my face. I didn’t want to overdo it.This wasn’t a pageant, just an interview. I slipped into a crisp white shirt and a plain black pencil skirt that hugged my hips just right. Modest. Clean. Simple.
I dabbed on a little lip gloss and a touch of eyeshadow enough to brighten my tired eyes, but not enough to look like I was trying too hard.
I didn’t need to.
I knew I was pretty.
Everyone said soright from the catty girls in high school who masked jealousy as cruelty, to the men who never really looked past my face. It was a blessing and a curse. But today, I’d use it to my advantage.
I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time and gave myself a nod.
Confident. Poised. Ready.
Amira had already left for work. She said she had to be in by 8 a.m., so the apartment was unusually quiet. I didn’t mind. I needed the silence to steady my nerves.
The taxi ride was short. Too short, if I was being honest. I'm not sure if I was ready for what was waiting for me.
The building stood tall and glassy the kind that screamed money and legacy. The lobby alone looked like it cost more than what I had in my entire savings account. Marble floors, gold-plated elevator buttons, and a front desk staffed by women who looked like they belonged on magazine covers.
I walked in, heels clicking on the floor like I owned the place, even though my stomach was in knots.
Other applicants were already seated, dressed sharply some nervously going over notes, others typing furiously on their phones. I took a seat at the far end and reached into my purse to double-check the job description.
That was when I saw it.
The card.
That card.
Sleek. Black. Embossed with silver writing.
Sinclair and Co International.
A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck. I froze.
No way.
No freaking way.
I stared at the card, willing myself to be wrong. But my gut knew better.
The same card he gave me that night.
After that night.
Damien Sinclair.
“No. 76!” someone called.
I jumped.
That was me.
I couldn’t turn back now.
I needed the job.
I needed the money.
I stood up slowly, trying to steady my breathing. I adjusted my skirt, my legs moving before my mind could fully process what was happening. My fingers clenched around my purse as I walked toward the elevator, heart pounding against my ribs.
This can’t be happening.
Please let it be another Sinclair. A cousin. A random coincidence.
The elevator doors opened on the 14th floor. The air smelled like expensive cologne and ambition. A young assistant led me to a sleek, glass-paneled office. Everything inside looked like it had been curated straight from the pages of a luxury magazine dark wood, steel finishes, and an intimidating air of success.
And then I saw him.
- Writer
