The heir’s choice

Nana’s call

RAYMOND

The Sinclair mansion sits on a rise above the city, old stone hidden behind jacarandas that have been there since before I was born. I drive through the wrought‑iron gates without slowing, the gravel crunching under my tires. I’ve made this drive hundreds of times. It never gets shorter.

I park beside my grandmother’s Bentley Mulsanne—black, immaculate—and off the engine. For a moment I just sit there, hands on the wheel, watching the afternoon light slant across the lawn. The air smells of eucalyptus.

Three weeks. Too long. She started dropping hints through her assistant last week, which is her way of saying come before I come for you.

The front door opens before I reach it. Margaret, Nana’s personal aide, gives me a tight, professional smile. “She’s in the garden room, Mr. Sinclair.”

“How is she?”

“The same as always.” A pause. “Your uncle was here yesterday.”

My jaw tightens. “Of course he was.”

I walk through the marble foyer, past the portraits of Sinclairs who built empires out of steel, then oil, then glass and technology. My father’s portrait hangs near the back—young, handsome, with the same sharp jaw I see in the mirror every morning. I smiled and walked past it.

The garden room is at the rear of the house, a glass‑walled conservatory that opens onto the manicured lawns. My grandmother sits in a wicker chair, a cup of tea cooling beside her, a tablet in her hand. She wears a burgundy silk caftan, her silver hair swept up, her reading glasses perched on her nose.

She didn't look up when I enter.

“Three weeks, Raymond.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

I take the seat across from her, sinking into the cushions. “If I were avoiding you, I wouldn’t be here.”

She sets the tablet down and removes her glasses, fixing me with a gaze that has made grown men squirm for six decades. At seventy‑eight, Odette Sinclair—Nana, to those she allows—has lost none of her edge.

“Your uncle brought Damian,” she says.

I keep my voice even. “How lovely for you.”

“He wanted to discuss the terms of the inheritance.”

I go still. “There’s nothing to discuss. You made the terms clear years ago.”

“I did.” Nana picks up her tea, takes a slow sip. “Mordecai seems to think you’ve been… dragging your feet. That perhaps you’re not serious about fulfilling your part.”

A low, humorless laugh escapes me. “He wants to know if I’m serious?” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Nana, I’ve spent the last eight years building Sinclair & Co. into something he could never touch. I’ve doubled our portfolio, expanded into markets he didn’t even know existed. And he wants to question whether I’m serious?”

Nana’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in her eyes—satisfaction, or warning. “Mordecai has always been impatient. He sees Damian as his path to control.”

“Damian couldn’t run a lemonade stand without his father holding his hand.”

“And yet,” she says quietly, “the clause is clear. The first of my grandsons to produce an heir receives the majority share of the family holdings. Mordecai believes Damian will succeed where you have not.”

My stomach tightens. I look away, toward the garden, where the light filters through the jacaranda trees.

An heir.

I think of Celine sometimes—more often than I want to admit. The way she looked at me when she said the baby was gone. The way she closed herself off, told me she wanted nothing more to do with me. I spent years trying to understand what I did wrong. I still don’t have an answer.

“I haven’t forgotten the terms,” I say finally.

“I know you haven’t.” Nana’s voice softens, just slightly. “But Raymond… you’re thirty‑two. You have a company, a name, a future. You can’t let the past bury you.”

“I’m not buried.”

“You’re not living, either.”

I meet her eyes. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll marry the next woman who crosses my path? Produce an heir like a stud horse for the family line?”

“I want you to be happy,” Nana says, and for a moment she sounds like the woman who read me stories when I was small, who held my hand at my father’s funeral. “But I also want you to win. Because if Damian inherits, Mordecai will tear apart everything your father and I built. You know that.”

I sit back, running a hand through my hair. “I know.”

A silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid.

Then Nana sets her cup down and changes direction, her tone lighter. “Speaking of women—Camille Laurent called me last week. She wanted to know if you’d be attending the family dinner this Saturday.”

I frown. “What family dinner?”

“The one I’m hosting. Mordecai insisted on a civilized gathering. I believe he wants to parade Damian in front of the board members who’ll be there.” She smiles thinly. “I thought you might want to show up and remind them who actually runs the company.”

“So it’s a trap.”

“It’s a dinner, Raymond. With or without you, it’s happening. I’d rather have you there than have Mordecai control the narrative.”

I consider refusing. The thought of sitting across from my uncle, watching Damian preen while Nana’s guests pretend not to notice the power struggle, makes my skin crawl. But Nana is right—absence is its own kind of statement, and not one I can afford.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” She picks up her tablet again, as if the matter is settled. “And bring someone. It looks better.”

“I’ll bring myself.”

She doesn’t look up. “That’s not what I meant.”

I lean back, studying her. “You have someone in mind.”

“I have several people in mind. Camille, for one. Her father’s shares are increasingly valuable, and she’s made her interest in you quite clear.”

“Camille is interested in the Sinclair name, not me.”

Nana shrugs one shoulder. “That’s usually how it starts. Sometimes it becomes more.”

I stand, suddenly restless. “I’ll handle the dinner. Who I bring—or don’t bring—is my decision.”

She finally looks up, and for a moment her gaze is piercing. “You’re still holding onto something that died eight years ago, Raymond. I don’t know what happened between you and Celine, but it’s over. Let it go.”

The words hit harder than she probably intended. I keep my face neutral. “I let it go a long time ago.”

“Then why is there no one in your life?”

I didn’t answer. I can’t.

She sighs, a sound of long‑suffering patience. “Fine. Go. I have calls to make.”

I lean down and kiss her cheek, a brief press of affection that she allows with a small huff.