HIS TO HAVE NOT TO OWN

CHAPTER 3

The Sinclair estate had always been more of a museum than a home—cold, calculated, a monument to power rather than warmth. Tonight, that feeling was amplified by the weight of expectation pressing against my shoulders.

Everything was as it should be. The chandelier’s golden glow bathed the grand ballroom in opulence, reflecting off the towering glass walls that framed the New York skyline. The room buzzed with conversation, clinking champagne glasses, and the faint hum of an orchestral quartet in the corner. Ethan Sinclair adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo, his expression unreadable as he scanned the crowd.

It was a perfect setting for a lie.

A necessary lie.

Ethan Sinclair had never been the type to let emotions interfere with duty, but tonight, as his gaze found Nina across the room, he felt something dangerously close to hesitation.

He had felt her before he saw her. She was the only thing in this room that didn’t fit—too vibrant, too alive, too real.

Draped in emerald silk, she looked every bit the woman the world expected at his side—poised, elegant, untouchable. But unlike the rest of them, she had warmth, something effortless that drew people in. He could see it in the way the guests turned toward her, in the way she smiled—soft but sharp enough to cut. She played this game well, but unlike him, she didn’t just exist in this world.

She thrived in it.

Ethan took a slow sip of whiskey, allowing himself a moment of detachment. This was just business. A strategic partnership. The engagement was nothing more than a merger, a solution to a problem neither of them had the luxury of avoiding. He was securing his position; she was securing her future.

It was supposed to be simple.

Then why the hell did it feel like anything but that?

She turned toward him, and for a second, he almost looked away. Almost.

But Ethan Sinclair never backed down from a challenge.

Her gaze met his, unwavering, unreadable. He could still remember the first time he had seen her—how effortlessly she had slipped past his defenses before he even realized she was trying. Nina had a way of making people forget themselves, of making them want to be something more, something better.

He resented that.

Because he had no use for better.

She descended the staircase, and his grip tightened around his glass. The world around them blurred, filled with murmurs and stolen glances, but he only focused on the deliberate sway of her steps, the way the silk of her dress clung to her as if it had been painted on. She was impossible to ignore.

And God help him, he had tried.

By the time she reached him, the air between them had stretched thin, charged with something neither of them had the luxury of acknowledging.

"Try to look like you don’t hate this," she murmured, her voice light but laced with something sharper beneath the surface.

He didn’t smile, but he let his eyes sweep over her, deliberate, slow. “Try to look like you actually belong here.”

It was a cruel jab, but she didn’t flinch. She never did. Instead, she stepped closer, and his body went rigid before he could stop it.

He felt it then—that pull. That dangerous, insidious thing that made him hyper-aware of her, of the warmth radiating from her skin, of the scent of jasmine and something undeniably her.

And then she reached for a champagne flute.

It was an innocent movement, a fleeting second, but when her fingers brushed against his, the air left his lungs in a way he refused to acknowledge.

A mistake. An oversight. That was all it was.

Still, he pulled away first.

The sharp clink of a glass silenced the room.

Ethan barely had a second to breathe before his grandfather’s voice cut through the air, smooth and controlled, commanding attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, we celebrate the engagement of my grandson, Ethan Sinclair, to the remarkable Miss Nina Carter.”

Applause. Flashes of cameras. A manufactured moment for an audience that fed on illusions.

Ethan exhaled slowly, then turned to Nina. She was still looking at his grandfather, her expression unreadable. He hated that he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Showtime,” he muttered under his breath.

Then, before he could think better of it, he placed a hand on her waist.

A mistake.

Her body went still for a fraction of a second—so brief he might have missed it if he wasn’t already attuned to her every movement. Then, just as quickly, she leaned into the touch, a picture-perfect illusion of a woman in love.

Ethan knew better.

But it didn’t stop his pulse from reacting as her fingers landed against his chest, the heat of her touch bleeding through the fabric.

It was supposed to be nothing. It didn’t feel like nothing.

His grandfather lifted his glass. “To Ethan and Nina—may their future be as bright as the legacy they will continue.”

Ethan barely heard the rest.

Because in that moment, as Nina smiled up at him for the cameras, something dark and unrelenting coiled in his chest. This was supposed to be easy.

One year. That’s all they had to endure.

But as her fingers lingered just a little too long against his chest, he realized something. This arrangement had never been the danger.

She was.

***

Ethan was already exhausted. Not physically, but mentally—playing the part, navigating the polite applause, the empty congratulations, the barely concealed envy from men who wished they were in his position, and women who wished they were in Nina’s.

It was all a game. One he had mastered.

Until her.

Nina had a way of shifting the balance, of making everything feel just a little too real.

And Ethan Sinclair did not do real. He needed a drink. Something strong enough to wash away the weight of the evening.

He threw a glance in Nina's direction while phasing through the crowd of people at the party, as he made his way to the bar. She looked tired and beautiful while talking with her aunt, Margaret Sinclair.

He turned to his watch and realized it was getting late, then he made a quick turn back to the table that the Sinclairs sat at, ignoring his need for something strong at the moment.