The heir’s choice

The architect

As I walk back through the foyer, my footsteps echoing against the marble, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.

Camille Laurent.

I silence it and keep walking.

The past is a locked door, and I’ve spent eight years standing in front of it, waiting for someone to turn the key. I don’t know if it will ever open.

But one thing is certain: Mordecai and Damian aren’t going to wait for me to figure it out.

At the front door, Margaret stops me. “Mr. Sinclair—your grandmother wanted me to give you this.” She hands me a cream‑colored envelope. “The dinner details.”

I take it, about to tuck it into my jacket, when Margaret adds, in a lower voice, “There’s something else. I thought you should know.”

I pause. “What?”

“Your uncle’s assistant has been making inquiries. About properties outside the city. Places that have been in the family for years. He seemed particularly interested in the old Valmont estate.”

I frown. Valmont is a crumbling property in the hills, unused for decades. “Why would Mordecai care about Valmont?”

Margaret shakes her head. “I don’t know, sir. But he’s been asking about access records. Who’s been there? Who’s authorized to use it?”

A cold thread winds through my chest. Valmont is remote, isolated. The kind of place you’d take someone you didn’t want seen.

“Thank you, Margaret,” I say, my voice even.

She nods and disappears back inside.

I walk to my car, the envelope in my hand, my mind churning. Mordecai doesn’t do anything without a reason. If he’s sniffing around Valmont, it means something—or someone—is there.

Or was.

***********************

The elevator doors part with a soft chime, and the executive floor unfolds before me—quiet, controlled, the way I like it. No frantic voices, no slamming drawers. Just the low hum of computers and the occasional click of a keyboard. My people know better.

Silas is already there, tablet in hand, posture perfect. He falls in beside me without a word, matching my pace exactly.

“Morning, sir.”

“What’s waiting?”

“Jakarta projections are in your inbox. Legal signed off on the acquisition terms. And—” He glances toward the row of offices on the left. “Ms. Laurent arrived about twenty minutes ago. She’s been waiting.”

I keep walking. “Camille.”

“She said it was regarding the board meeting.”

Of course she did. Camille always has a reason. Usually a good one. But I’ve learned to listen for the things she doesn’t say.

“Anything else?”

Silas hesitates. It’s a tiny thing—a flicker in his voice—but I catch it.

“She brought someone with her. A new hire. Ms. Laurent has placed her in the executive consultant office.”

I stopped.

The silence stretches just long enough for Silas to shift his weight.

“Placed her,” I repeat. “Without my approval.”

“I wasn’t made aware until this morning, sir. I assumed you’d signed off.”

I didn’t respond. I turn toward the consultant's office, my footsteps slower now, deliberate. Silas follows half a step behind, wisely keeping quiet.

Through the glass door, I see her.

She’s standing near the desk, not quite settled, like she’s afraid to touch anything. Dark hair, still a little damp at the ends, as if she ran through the rain and didn’t quite finish drying off. Her blouse is simple—black, professional—but there’s a small crease at the collar that says she pulled it from a drawer in a hurry. She’s holding a file against her chest, her fingers curled tight around the edge.

When she turns toward the door and sees me, her eyes go wide. Her grip on the file tightens.

I let the silence hang. Not to be cruel. I just want to see what she’ll do.

She straightens her shoulders. It’s a small movement, but I notice. She’s nervous, but she’s not backing down.

“And you are?” I ask. My voice comes out flatter than I intended.

“I’m the executive architectural consultant.”

Her voice is steady. That surprises me.

I turn to Silas. “We didn’t interview a female yesterday.”

Silas’s face pales. Before he can stammer out an answer, a voice cuts in from the doorway.

“That’s because I told her to start.”

Camille steps in with the ease of someone who owns the room. She’s dressed in cream today, sharp lines, her hair perfectly in place. She smiles, but there’s something behind it—a warning, maybe. Or a secret.

I hold her gaze. “You told her to start.”

“Yes.”

“Without consulting me.”

“I’m consulting you now.” She doesn’t blink. “I saw her CV, Raymond. She’s talented. And she was about to walk away because someone on your staff couldn’t wait five minutes.”

I glance at Silas. He shifts uncomfortably but says nothing.

“That’s not how hiring works, Camille.”

“I know.” She tilts her head, and for a moment her expression softens. “But the person who did show up for the interview yesterday wasn’t someone you wanted in this building.”

Something cold settles in my chest. I look at her more closely now. Camille isn’t reckless. If she’s saying something was wrong, it’s because she knows.

I glance at the woman—still standing by the desk, watching us with a mixture of confusion and barely concealed anxiety. She has no idea what she walked into this morning.

I turn back to Camille. “My office. Now.”

I don’t wait for a response. I walk, and I hear her heels follow.

Behind me, I hear Silas let out a slow breath. I’ll deal with him later.

---

The door to my office closes with a solid click.

Camille didn't sit. She walks to the window, arms crossed, watching the street below. I lean against the edge of my desk and wait.

“Yesterday’s candidate,” she says, not turning around. “The one Silas interviewed. I had someone look into the car that dropped him off.”

I stayed silent.

“It’s registered to Mordecai’s holding company. And the driver was the same man who drives Damian’s personal car.”

The words land like stones in still water. I let them ripple through me before I speak.

“You’re telling me my uncle tried to plant someone inside my company.”

She turns then, meeting my eyes. “I’m telling you I recognized the car because I’ve seen it outside your uncle’s properties. I had it confirmed this morning.” Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it. “That candidate wasn’t there for an interview, Raymond. He was there to get inside. To watch.”

I exhale slowly. My hands slide into my pockets, and I let myself feel the anger for a moment—not at Camille, but at Mordecai. The way he’s always circling, always waiting.

“You did the right thing,” I say finally. “Thank you.”

Camille’s posture eases, just slightly. “I know you hate anyone meddling. But I wasn’t going to let him put a spy on your executive floor.”

I nod. “I’ll handle Mordecai.”

“I know you will.” She pauses, then glances toward the door. “The woman I brought in—Winter Grant. I looked at her credentials. UCLA, architecture, specialization in sustainable design and emergency housing. Final year project on rapid‑response shelters. Won a student award for low‑cost housing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s specific.”

“It’s impressive.” Camille’s voice softens, almost imperceptibly. “She was late because her car broke down. She ran to the interview in the rain, soaked through, and still showed up ready to work. Your people turned her away because she was five minutes late.”

I consider that. Most people, given that kind of morning, would have given up. Called a friend, rescheduled, and went home to dry off. Instead, she ran. In the rain. For a job she didn’t even have.

“Is she capable?” I ask.

Camille meets my eyes. “She’s more than capable. I wouldn’t have brought her in if she wasn’t.”

I hold her gaze for a moment, then look away. “She stays. But from now on, hires go through me. Understood?”

“Understood.” Camille smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. “I’ll let her know she passed the unofficial second interview.”

She turns toward the door, then pauses with her hand on the handle.

“Raymond?”

“What?”

She glances back, amusement flickering across her face. “You might want to be slightly less terrifying when you speak to her. She looked like she was about to pass out.”

I didn’t answer. Camille laughs softly and slips out.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. My uncle tried to plant someone inside my company. Camille caught it. And now there’s a woman named Winter Grant sitting in my executive consultant office, hired on Camille’s word, with no idea she just became a piece on a board she doesn’t even know exists.

I pick up my phone. “Silas.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want Winter Grant’s personnel file on my desk in the next hour. And a full background check. Not the standard one.”

“Understood.”

I hang up and walk to the window, looking down at the city below. Somewhere out there, Mordecai is making his moves. The family dinner is in three days. He’ll be there, smiling, pretending we’re one happy family while he tries to steal everything my father built.