Chapter Three ~ At the End of the Table
1359 Words
The Sinclair board meetings always felt less like discussions and more like interrogations.
The boardroom itself was a statement of dominance—its glass walls covered by thick velvet curtains for privacy, a twelve-foot mahogany table so polished it reflected the ceiling lights, and black leather chairs deep enough to swallow anyone who sat too long. Everything in there screamed luxury.
At the far end of the room hung the massive Sinclair family crest, a silent reminder of who ruled this empire.
Timothy sat at the head of the table, posture impeccable as always, his suit immaculate and radiating that same old-school authority that had kept him at the top for decades.
Beside him sat Clara Sinclair—composed and elegant, her manicured nails resting lightly on the table like she owned the place. In many ways, she did though.
Across from them, Billy lounged in his chair, restless and arrogant, his usual smirk barely hidden.
The five board members sat scattered along the table, flipping through their tablets and murmuring among themselves. But when Timothy cleared his throat, the room fell silent.
“Where the hell are your brothers, Taylor?” he barked suddenly, turning his sharp, commanding gaze toward his first son.
Taylor straightened in his seat, masking his discomfort. “Richard said he was busy with…uhm meetings. Jason didn’t answer my calls.”
Timothy’s jaw tightened. “Meetings? With who? His drug dealer?” His tone was venomous enough to make one of the board members flinch. “And Jason...” he slammed his palm on the table, making pens rattle “...that lazy moron. Always disappearing like a rat, and glued to that damn phone everytime. What the f**k do I even pay him for?”
Before Taylor could respond, Clara’s hand landed gently on her husband’s forearm. The motion was small but carried weight—an unspoken command.
She leaned closer, whispering something only he could hear, "Compose yourself Timothy, this is not a good look for the family" she said, her face remaining perfectly calm. “We have a reputation to uphold.”
Timothy grunted, leaning back in his chair. With a single adjustment of his tie, his composure returned. The eruption was over. Clara had that rare ability to calm him without confrontation, to rein him in without ever seeming to try.
“Hmm, Fine” Timothy muttered. “Let’s get this started.”
Howard, one of the older board members, cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Sinclair, the first item on the agenda is the upcoming women empowerment program. Mrs. Sinclair has the details, we the board members would like to know on the progress of this program.”
Clara’s smile widened. She thrived in moments like this. With grace, she adjusted her pearl necklace and clasped her hands neatly together.
“Thank you, Howard,” she began smoothly. “This program is close to my heart. We’ll be launching the Sinclair Women’s Initiative next month...providing mentorship, funding, and scholarships to young women in underprivileged communities. It’s an opportunity for us to elevate the Sinclair brand, not only as a symbol of luxury but as a force that uplifts others socially”
She paused, glancing briefly at Taylor before continuing. “We’ve allocated two million dollars for the first phase—focused on education and startup grants. The amount is scalable depending on results and media traction. plus, A gala will officially launch the initiative.”
One of the board members nodded. “Excellent positioning, Mrs. Sinclair. Philanthropy pairs well with our brand image.”
Clara smiled modestly. She was a natural diplomat. While Timothy ruled with authority, Clara refined the family’s image by softening their sharp edges enough to make them untouchable.
“Let’s lock down a date for that gala,” Timothy said firmly.
“How about three weeks from now?” Clara suggested. “That gives us enough time for media arrangements and investor invitations.”
Timothy nodded. “Done. Make it happen dear.”
Howard began typing notes on his tablet as the others murmured quietly. Then, Timothy’s voice cut through again.
“Taylor.”
“Yes, Dad?”
“You’re going to London next week. The British investors are restless. They need reassurance that the house of Sinclair is still expanding as promised.”
Taylor blinked. “Next week?”
“Yes, next week,” Timothy snapped, his patience thin. "you've got a problem with that?"
"No Dad, I was just making sure I heard right... nothing more" Taylor said.
“You’re the CFO of this company Taylor. I've told you countless times to start acting like it. I want you there by Friday morning. Meet our European team, finalize the expansion details, and keep those investors happy. If they’re not smiling, don’t come back.”
Taylor forced a tight smile. “Understood. Dad”
Across the table, Billy let out a low scoff.
“Something funny?” Timothy’s tone turned lethal.
Billy leaned forward, smirking. “No, Dad. Just noticing how Taylor gets all the important assignments while the rest of us get sidelined.”
Timothy’s gaze hardened. “You want an assignment? Earn it. Taylor is CFO for a reason. You’re… what? Head of marketing? A position you’ve nearly tanked twice this quarter. Sit down and shut the f**k up before I strip that title, too.”
Billy’s smirk faltered. “I’m just saying...it feels like some of us aren’t being trusted. Maybe give others a chance to prove themselves.”
Clara’s voice sliced through the tension. “Billy. Enough.”
Her tone was calm but glacial. Billy met her gaze and looked away first.
“We don’t need sibling rivalry in front of the board,” she continued smoothly. “If you want your father’s trust, you’ll earn it through results, not resentment.”
The board members exchanged uncomfortable glances, clearly uneasy with the family drama unfolding before them. Timothy noticed and quickly shifted the tone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice measured again, “let’s stay focused. My family may not always feel like one happy family, but The House of Sinclair remains a well-oiled machine. The women’s program is approved and the London trip is confirmed. Now, let’s move to quarterly reports.”
The meeting dragged on for another hour—profit margins, projections, marketing strategies, but Taylor’s thoughts drifted.
He caught Billy’s simmering glare a few times, but he ignored it. Clara maintained her elegance, taking notes while whispering instructions to her assistant. Timothy commanded the room with cold precision.
When the meeting finally ended, the board members filed out one by one, masks of professionalism hiding their judgments. Clara excused herself to take a call, leaving Taylor alone with his father and brother.
Timothy leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. “You’d better not screw this up, Taylor. London is critical. If those investors sense weakness, the expansion dies. I won’t tolerate failure.”
Taylor met his gaze. “I won’t let you down, Dad.”
“You’d better not.” Timothy rose abruptly and straightened his jacket. “Billy, stop sulking. Grow a backbone...or get out of my sight.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed. “You always play favorites. One day, you’ll regret that.”
Timothy smirked coldly. “The only thing I’ll regret is not firing you sooner if you don’t produce results.” He left the room without looking back.
Billy turned to Taylor, bitterness etched in every word. “Must be nice, being the golden boy huh!.”
Taylor exhaled. “Don’t start, Billy. I didn’t ask for this.”
“Yeah, well,” Billy muttered, snatching his jacket, “Enjoy London. Another chance for Dad to parade his perfect son while the rest of us rot.”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Taylor remained seated for a long moment, staring at the gleaming table, the family crest, and the now-empty chairs. The Sinclair empire was built on power, wealth, and fear—but in that silence, it felt more like a cage.
London wasn’t just a trip. It was a test—and failure wasn’t an option.
- Writer
