011
1581 Words
TRISTAN'S POV
The hydraulic hiss of the jet stairs lowers with a heavy thud, cutting through the humid air of the County tarmac. Three weeks in Monaco left the air in my lungs feeling too clean, too sterile; I need the grit of home. I adjust my cufflinks, the platinum catching the harsh glare of the sun, and step down. The Italian leather of my oxfords clicks against the metal stairs, then the concrete. The heat hits me instantly—a wet, heavy blanket that smells of jet fuel and impending rain.
Two shadows detach from the black SUV waiting at the edge of the private terminal. Kael and Jax. They move with the synchronized precision of trained Dobermans, their suits cut sharp enough to slice glass. They reach me just as my feet hit the pavement.
"Welcome back, Mr. Sinclair," Kael says, his voice a low rumble. He extends a hand for my briefcase before I can even offer it. Jax flanks my left, scanning the perimeter like he expects a sniper in the hangar.
"Good to be back," I mutter, though the words taste like ash. I hand over the leather case. "Is the car ready?"
"Ready and waiting, sir," Jax replies, opening the rear door of the Suburban.
I slide into the cooled interior, the smell of expensive leather and new car scent replacing the tarmac odors. Jax shuts the door with a solid thud, sealing me in the silence. Kael takes the wheel, and Jax slides into the passenger seat. We pull away from the jet, moving slow and deliberate through the private aviation section.
I stare out the tinted window at the terminal. "How is the house?"
"Quiet, sir," Kael says, his eyes on the rearview mirror. "But Mrs. Sinclair is currently at headquarters. She’s leading a board meeting."
I pause, my finger tracing the seam of my pants. "A board meeting?"
"Yes, sir," Jax chimes in from the front, turning slightly. "She called it this morning."
I lean back, the leather creaking under my weight. "And when exactly did this little gathering start?"
"About an hour ago," Kael answers.
A slow smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. An hour. That’s just enough time for her to get comfortable, to think the throne is empty. "I see," I murmur.
Kael navigates the exit ramp, merging into the sparse airport traffic. "Home, then, Mr. Sinclair? Or the penthouse?"
"No," I say, the word cutting through the air like a blade. "Take me straight to the company. Now."
Kael doesn’t hesitate. He signals and swerves into the fast lane, the engine roaring as we accelerate toward the city skyline.
The ride is a blur of gray concrete and passing cars. When we finally pull up to the Sinclair Tower, the glass facade reflects the angry clouds gathering overhead. Kael stops at the curb, and Jax is out first, opening my door before I can reach for the handle.
I step out, straightening my jacket. The lobby is a hive of activity, but the moment the glass doors part, the noise dies. It’s like someone sucked the oxygen out of the room. Heads turn. Eyes widen. I see a receptionist drop a stapler, a clatter that echoes in the sudden silence. They stare at me like I’m a ghost. They thought I was gone for a month, chasing deals in the Riviera, leaving the queen to rule the castle.
I walk past the security desk, my stride long and unhurried. Kael and Jax flank me, parting the sea of employees like the Red Sea. I catch snippets of whispers as I pass.
"Is that him?" "I thought he was in Monaco..." "s**t, Grace is going to lose her mind."
I ignore them, stepping into the private CEO elevator. The doors slide shut, cutting off the murmurs, and we ascend. The numbers on the display climb, and with every floor, the air gets thinner. Jax stays silent, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. He knows what’s coming.
The elevator chimes, a soft, polite ding. The doors open directly into the boardroom’s anteroom. I don’t need to walk in to know what’s happening. The heavy oak doors are slightly ajar, and Valeria’s voice drifts out, shrill and demanding.
"The projections are clear!" she’s saying, her tone dripping with that special brand of selfishness she tries to disguise as pragmatism. "We are bleeding money on health benefits. Dental, vision, mental health—it’s excessive. If we s***h the coverage tiers, we boost quarterly profits by fifteen percent. Fifteen percent! The shareholders will love it."
"But Mrs. Sinclair," a nervous, older voice stammers—probably Mr. Henderson from Accounting. "The morale hit... the turnover rate will skyrocket. We can't just gut the employees' security to pad the stock price for one quarter."
"We aren't gutting anything, we’re optimizing," she snaps back. "They should be grateful they have jobs at all. I motion for the vote."
I stand in the doorway, unseen for a heartbeat. Then, I take a step forward. The leather of my soles scuffs against the marble floor.
The room freezes. Twelve heads snap toward me. Valeria is at the head of the table, her hand hovering over a stack of papers. Her face goes pale, the blood draining so fast she looks like a wax figure. The board members look like they’ve seen a bomb detonate.
For a second, she’s paralyzed. Then, the mask slides back into place. She stands, smoothing her skirt, a bright, practiced smile stretching across her face. It doesn't reach her eyes.
"Tristan!" she exclaims, rushing around the table. She smells like vanilla and desperation. She plants a kiss on my cheek, her lips lingering too long. "You didn't tell me you were coming home! I would have canceled."
I don't move. I don't kiss her back. I just look at her, my expression flat. "I didn't plan it. Business in Monaco finished sooner than I expected."
She pouts, crossing her arms and pushing her breasts up, trying to distract me with the body I paid for. "I missed you. You should have called."
"I was heading to the house," I say, my voice loud enough for the entire table to hear. "But I was told my beautiful wife was having a board meeting without me. So I thought I’d come... look."
Her smile twitches. She glares over my shoulder at Kael, her eyes shooting daggers. Kael stares at the wall, impassive. She knows he leaked it. Good.
"Well, since you’re here," she says, turning back to the table, clapping her hands together. "This meeting is adjourned. We can finish this later. In private."
"No," I say.
The word drops into the room like a lead weight. The murmurs start up instantly, a low buzz of anxiety.
"Tristan, honey," Valeria says, stepping closer, lowering her voice to a purr. She reaches out to touch my arm, her nails digging into my sleeve. "I'm sorry, I was just trying to manage things while you were away. We can talk about this at home. I’ll make your favorite dinner."
I shake her off, stepping around her to the head of the table. I rest my hands on the polished wood, looking down at the terrified faces of my board, then up at her.
"Sit down and shut up, Valeria," I say, my voice calm but carrying the sharp edge of a razor. "I didn't fly three thousand miles to watch you play CEO with my company."
She gasps, her hand flying to her chest. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I say, turning my gaze to the room. "Cutting health benefits to boost quarterly profits? Are you brain-dead, or just that greedy?"
"It’s standard business practice!" she sputters, her composure cracking. "It’s what the shareholders want!"
"It’s what a short-sighted, amateur cunt does," I say, watching her flinch as if I’d slapped her. "You want to strip the people who actually build the product of their health insurance so you can buy another f*****g designer purse? You think padding the numbers for one quarter is worth the strike that will happen when they find out?"
I lean forward, my knuckles white on the table. "I built this empire on loyalty. You’re trying to build it on fear and theft. It’s pathetic. It’s weak. And frankly, it’s embarrassing."
I look around the room, making eye contact with every single board member who sat there and nodded along with her insanity. "If I ever catch any of you entertaining a plan this f*****g stupid again, you’ll be cleaning out your desks before the sun goes down. Do I make myself clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir" and "Absolutely, Mr. Sinclair" fills the room.
I turn back to Valeria. She’s standing there, trembling, her face flushed a deep, ugly red. She looks small. She looks exactly like what she is—a cheap imitation of power.
"I set the policy here," I say, stepping into her personal space, looming over her. "Not you. You are a decoration, Valeria. Don't ever forget your place again. Now get out of my chair."
She doesn't move. She just stares at me, hate and humiliation warring in her eyes. I hold her gaze, unblinking, until she drops her head and steps aside.
I take my seat at the head of the table, the leather cool against my back. "Now," I say, loosening my tie. "Let’s talk about something that actually matters."
- Writer
