The Architect of Anxiety
1956 Words
Chapter 6
That morning, the scent of lavender and toast filled the kitchen, a stark contrast to the emotional wreckage Amelia felt. As she sat down, the heavy mahogany table suddenly seemed like a battlefield.
"Mr. Thorne's family?" Amelia finally managed, her voice thin. "Mom, after... after Kevin and I broke off the engagement in that messy way, why are they coming here? Isn't it awkward?" Her mother, Sarah, poured a cup of tea, her movements practiced and calm despite the tremor Amelia knew ran beneath her surface.
"Awkward is a minor inconvenience for your father, Amelia. He sees it as an opportunity. A show of unbroken unity and stability."
Amelia knew exactly what that meant: damage control. Her father, CEO David Vance, treated every personal crisis like a quarterly loss that needed immediate and ruthless mitigation. The scandalous photos, the broken engagement—all of it had to be buried under layers of polite society and profitable ventures.
"He wants the public to believe we are all still the best of friends," Sarah explained, placing the cup in front of Amelia. "It smooths things over for the tabloids. It shows Mr. Sinclair that the Vances are resilient and trustworthy, not embroiled in petty family dramas."
"Mr. Sinclair," Amelia repeated, the name sounding sharp and important. "Who is he?"
Sarah leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "He's from the Sinclair conglomerate. They own controlling stakes in four continents, Amelia. This deal... if your father gets it, it solidifies our family's standing globally. It’s the biggest venture he’s ever chased."
Amelia felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. A dinner meant to facilitate a massive business deal, involving the family she'd just publicly disgraced, and a powerful new guest. She was nothing more than an accessory to her father's ambition.
"So, I'm just part of the backdrop?" she asked bitterly.
Her mother took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "You are our daughter, Amelia. And tonight, you are going to be poised, gracious, and utterly charming. Your father needs this to go perfectly. And you, my dear, are going to help him."
The preparation for the dinner was elaborate. Amelia was dressed in a sapphire gown, her makeup flawless, looking every inch the dutiful heiress.
When the Thornes arrived, the air crackled with forced civility. Kevin Thorne, her ex-fiancé, gave her a brief, chillingly polite nod, his eyes holding a mixture of victory. His parents greeted David Vance with overly enthusiastic handshakes, the performance already in full swing.
The buzz in the Vance mansion died to a respectful, anticipatory hush. The heavy oak doors swung open, and all eyes snapped to the entrance
.
“And the man of the evening has come, Mr. Sinclair!” David Vance rushed forward, his usually composed face split by an excited, welcoming grin. Mr. Thorne and his son, Kevin, followed closely, mirroring David's eagerness.
Amelia’s wine glass tilted dangerously in her hand. Her eyes widened, focusing on the tall, impeccably tailored figure walking into the light.
Mr. Sinclair? No!
It was Austin. The mysterious, charming stranger from the New Year's party.
He was the ghost who haunted her memories—the man she had impulsively and unexpectedly slept with on a night fueled by champagne and a sudden, reckless freedom. He had vanished before dawn, leaving only a faint scent of sandalwood and a feeling of profound, confusing regret. And now, he was here, walking with an exciting David Vance, the central figure of her father’s biggest professional gamble.
He didn't look the same. He was, in a chilling way, entirely different as a new person. The Austin she remembered was vibrant, his eyes crinkling when he laughed. That night, he’d worn a casual, dark shirt, half-buttoned, showcasing a perfect, sculpted body that she could still recall the feel of beneath her fingertips. He’d been warm, intoxicating, and dangerously attractive.
The man now—Mr. Sinclair—was an exhibit of cold perfection. He was encased in a flawless, charcoal-grey suit, the jacket buttoned tight, sealing off every hint of vulnerability. His hair was slicked back, accentuating sharp, severe cheekbones. His aura was dominant, powerful, and utterly devoid of warmth. He was a cold and emotionless walking statue.
Amelia’s heart hammered against her ribs. Did she sleep with the same man? The contrast was jarring. It was like comparing a bonfire to a block of ice.
Her father, Mr. Vance, cheerfully pulled her forward. “Mr. Sinclair, allow me to introduce my family. This is my wife, Sara, and my daughter, Amelia.”
Mr. Sinclair halted. He turned his gaze, and his ice-blue eyes swept over her face. There was no flicker of recognition, no shared spark, no guilty awareness. He simply gave a curt, almost dismissive nod of his head.
“A pleasure,” his voice was a low, smooth rumble, professional and formal.
Amelia stared back, searching desperately for the mischievous glint she’d seen at midnight under the beach party. Nothing.
He didn't recognize her. Or... he’s someone else.
Could she have mistaken two men who looked remarkably alike? No, the scar above his left eyebrow, the subtle twist of his lips—it was him.
Mr. Sinclair moved on, the Vances and Thornes trailing in his formidable wake. Amelia felt a dizzying mix of panic and relief. Panic, because the man she’d exposed herself to was clearly an untouchable titan of industry. Relief, because if he didn't recognize her, her secret was safe.
As the evening progressed, she watched him from a distance. She overheard whispers: Mr. Sinclair. The CEO of the Sinclair Group. Ruthless. Brilliant. A man who bought and sold companies before breakfast.
The name "Austin" sounded ridiculously out of place to him according to the person who she knew before. Later, while retrieving a fresh glass of water, she found herself momentarily isolated near the terrace doors. A shadow fell over her.
“Ms. Vance.” She spun around. Mr. Sinclair stood barely three feet away. Her breath hitched.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she managed, her voice a reedy whisper.
He looked down at her, and this time, his cold gaze lingered. A fraction of a second passed—long enough for the silence to stretch and threaten to snap. Then, a corner of his mouth twitched, the slightest, almost imperceptible upward curve. It was the movement that had preceded a dizzying kiss.
“You have a mark on your collar,” he said, his voice dropping an octave lower, no longer the CEO, but something subtly predatory. He reached out, his long, cool fingers brushing her neck as he plucked a tiny thread of lint from her dress.
He held the thread between his thumb and index finger. His eyes finally met hers, and in their ice-blue depths, she saw it: the recognition. It was sharp, clear, and laced with an unnerving, knowing amusement.
“My apologies,” he murmured, dropping the thread and stepping back, his face instantly resuming its mask of aloof indifference. “I’m afraid I’m terrible with names, but I rarely forget a face… or a significant evening.” Before turning around, he said. “Mr. Sinclair sounds too formal, you can call me Austin.”
He gave her a single, sharp nod—the cold statue was back—and then melted into the others, leaving Amelia trembling, the clean, undeniable scent of sandalwood heavy in the air around her.
The grand mahogany dining table stretched like an intimidating expanse of polished wood, reflecting the muted gleam of the crystal chandelier above. Each clink of silverware sounded deafeningly loud to Amelia. She felt trapped, the velvet cushion of her chair offering no comfort, only an insidious pressure.
Across the imposing stretch of white linen, seated directly opposite her, was Austin.
It wasn't a coincidence; she knew, with a sickening certainty, it was a deliberate, calculated move. His presence was a physical violation of the peace she had meticulously rebuilt over the last two days. Since that reckless, drunken night—a mistake she had desperately tried to bury.
He was here as a guest of her father, Mr. David, a celebrated industrialist. Austin wasn't just a guest; he was the son and representative of Mr. Julian Sinclair, the formidable figure slated to become her father’s new, pivotal business partner.
Amelia's fingers gripped the stem of her water glass so tightly her knuckles were white. She tried to maintain the serene, polite smile expected of the host’s daughter, but her muscles felt locked, her breath shallow. She was suffocating on the heavy air, the scent of expensive perfume, and the overwhelming proximity of her secret.
During the polite chatter about market trends and logistics, Austin’s eyes found hers. They weren't accusatory or angry; they were worse. They were knowing. A slow, chilling smile played on the corner of his lips—a smile that acknowledged her panic, the frantic drumming in her chest.
Then came the moment that shattered her composure entirely.
Mr. David, beaming with pride, raised his glass. “To a successful partnership!” he declared. “Mr. Sinclair, you’ve been patient with me during all the business deal making. I insist you come back next month for the signing ceremony. We must celebrate properly—perhaps a weekend at our lake house. Bring your family.”
The pit of Amelia's stomach dropped out. Next month. Lake house. Again. Austin held her gaze as he raised his own glass. “That is very kind, Mr.Vance. I will certainly be here. And I look forward to seeing Amelia again,” he said, his voice smooth and low, the last sentence dripping with a private, terrifying emphasis that only she could decipher.
Amelia’s mind raced through the escalating terror: What if her family finds out their secret? Her father valued his reputation above all else. A drunken tryst with the partner's son would be a scandal, a public humiliation that could damage both her family's standing and, potentially, the business deal itself.
Does he use it to manipulate her father for a business deal? The thought was horrifying. If Austin knew about the lucrative deal's particulars, he could leverage her shame—a demand for an unfair clause, an insider advantage—threatening to reveal their secret if his demands weren't met. Her father would pay any price to protect his name.
Which intention has he come here? This was the most pressing question. Was the meeting truly about business? Or was it about her? Was he looking for a second round of indiscretion? Was he seeking revenge for a perceived slight? Or was he here specifically to weaponise their shared history?
As the main course was served, Austin leaned forward just slightly, ostensibly to ask a question of her father, but his eyes drilled into hers.
“It's a small world, isn’t it, Amelia?” he murmured, loud enough only for her to hear over the drone of conversation. He paused, his gaze cool and dissecting. “I’ve often wondered about a person’s true price. How much is peace of mind worth? A business deal? A good reputation?”
He gave her that chilling, private smile again. "Let's just say I'm here to ensure all the negotiations go… smoothly."
The plate of expensive food in front of her might as well have been a ticking bomb. She had to end the dinner. She had to end this interaction. But more terrifyingly, she knew this was only the beginning. The shadow had just found its place at her table, and it was settling in for a very long partnership.
- Writer
