2025-09-04 21:49:09
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Chicken And Chaos.
Sinclair’s POVApril stood in the middle of her living room like a war general surveying a battlefield. She had her hands planted on her hips, chin tilted at a stubborn angle, she let her gaze sweep across the disaster zone of unfolded laundry, stacked books, discarded sketches, and coffee mugs that had clearly been sitting there long enough to qualify for archaeological excavation.I, on the other hand, stood with folded arms, waiting for her to say something since she forbade me from sitting inside all this mess.If you asked me what I prepared for the night of project planning then I'd most likely say a laptop, a drink, and maybe a couple arguments here and there. But look what I got instead.“This...” she gestured dramatically at the chaos “...is uninhabitable. We cannot possibly work in here.”I looked around. Messy? Sure. But I’d grown up in worse. My grandma used to be a journalist before she started falling sick on a daily basis. Now, you can imagine the home of a journalist w
Miss Clown.
Sinclair's POVBy the time we finally wrapped up for the night, technically, the morning.....April stretched with the kind of dramatic flair you’d expect from someone winning an Olympic gold medal in “Suffering Through Corporate Life.”I could relate to that though. You probably could too.“We. Are. DONE,” she declared, half-singing it as she grabbed her tote bag and swung it over her shoulder like she was about to walk a fashion runway.She turned toward me, eyes alight with joy despite how drained she looked, and grabbed my hand. “Come on, let's get out of this death trap before someone invents another task.”I was about telling her it was midnight and we were the only ones left here, but on second thoughts.....no.I let her drag me toward the elevator, her fingers still laced with mine.Then she stopped dead in her tracks, in front of the metal doors.I knew that expression.“Oh hell no,” she said.I raised a brow. “What?”She looked at me with wide, are-you-fucking-kidding-me eyes
Electric Bolt.
Sinclair's POVIt was way past working hours, and the office had begun to take on that weird, eerie silence that only hits when everyone’s gone and the lights are half off. I rubbed at my eyes and leaned back in my chair, sighing as I glanced over the spreadsheet still open on my screen.Believe you me, I was the definition of the word tired.Apparently, our team had to pull extra hours thanks to some “urgent” client deliverable that came in at 4:55 PM like chaos itself had hit the send button or something.Most of them had gone home though. Literally almost everybody. The only person I could see in sight was April who was seated across the room, hunched over her desk with that stubborn furrow in her brow. I’d learned early on that it showed up when she was deep in thought, or about to lose it completely. Probably the second one, considering it was almost 11 PM.I grabbed two paper cups from the break room and poured us both some of that bitter, stale office coffee. At this hour, it w
It’s Complicated.
Sinclair POVNow, let's agree on this. I had survived many things in life, no?Poverty. Betrayals. Near death situations, boardroom betrayals, billion-dollar takeovers, the occasional assassination attempt from men who couldn’t handle losing. But somehow, none of those compared to the particular hell that was pretending to have “fun” with Khalid Al-Fayeed.Because I couldn't understand what exactly the man loved about sports, laughter, sunshine, “unity”. And it was funny enough that those words had no business being in my vocabulary.And after an entire week of playing host, humoring him, and—worst of all—watching him get overly comfortable with April, I was more than ready to watch his private jet disappear into the clouds.So when Khalid gathered us all together in the villa’s courtyard that morning, his eyes shining like we’d just come back from some inspirational retreat, I braced myself. Whatever speech was about to leave his mouth, it would be nauseating.That was pretty much a
The Ghost In The Smoke.
Hey, Loves. Me again. Remember the warning about random switches I'm going to be throwing in-between chapters? This is one of these. So bear with me, yeah? Thank you for reading this far!____The Terminator’s POVThe thing about hate is this. It isn't born overnight. It was cultivated. It grew like mold, feeding on damp silence and rotting memory. The Hales had taken everything from me, and when you strip a man down to nothing, you do not destroy him. You forge him. Into something sharper. Into something relentless.Into.......me.I had lived too long in their shadows, learning their steps, memorizing their weaknesses, turning their arrogance into weapons for my hands. They thought themselves untouchable. Ha! As if they were .There was Sinclair with his scar and silly rags to riches story, Ambrose, Sinclair's grandfather dearest, with his pride, the rest with their empire of glass. But glass shatters, no? Doesn't mean it'd happen immediately, but eventually it does. And me? I was al
More Like Torture.
Sinclair’s POVThe sun was.....a sadist.That was the only conclusion I could come up with as it poured down on the resort lawn, turning the grass into a frying pan and my skin into a slow-cooking experiment.Every bead of sweat that trickled down my spine felt like a personal insult, a reminder that Khalid Al-Fayeed was somewhere gleefully enjoying this torment.You'll understand my words in a bit.“Today,” Khalid announced, arms spread like he was summoning the sun itself, “we do something different. Work is one thing, but unity is another. And what better way to build unity than field sports?”What better way? How bout staying indoors where you won't have the sun roasting your skin?Field sports.I stared at him, unblinking, silently calculating the odds of strangling him with a badminton net and still managing to close our partnership deal. Spoiler: not high. Very, very low.“What do sports have to do with unity?” I asked, my tone dripping with the kind of sarcasm that could curdl
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