Sinclair's Lost Heir[The Rise Of The Betrayed Son-in-law]

CHAPTER 5

Ethan’s POV

The silence of my study was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. I didn’t look up immediately, finishing the last few lines of the document I was reviewing. It had been days since I officially entered the Sinclair Empire, and the sheer volume of information I had to absorb felt endless.

“Come in.” My voice was calm, measured.

One of my personal security guards stepped in, his stance rigid. “Sir, the President requests your presence in his study.

I set down the papers, rubbing my temples briefly before rising. “Did he mention why?”

The guard shook his head. “No, sir. Only that it is urgent.”

I nodded. My grandfather wasn’t one for unnecessary summons. Whatever this was about, it had to be important. Still, I didn’t let it bother me. With a steady breath, I adjusted my cuffs and made my way out.

The corridors of the Sinclair estate stretched long and elegant, bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers. Every servant, every guard I passed either bowed or genuflected. It wasn’t the gestures themselves that stirred something within me, it was what they meant. After years of being discarded, overlooked, and cast aside, I had finally found a place where I was not just acknowledged, but respected. The Sinclair bloodline ran through my veins, and for the first time, the world was forced to recognize it.

As I approached my grandfather’s study, hushed voices slipped through the thick wooden doors. I slowed my steps, listening. The tone was low, the words indistinct, but the tension in them was undeniable.

The guard at the door straightened at my arrival and announced, “Ethan Sinclair is here, sir.”

A pause. Then, “Let him in.”

The door swung open, and I stepped inside, my gaze immediately sweeping the room.

My grandfather sat at his mahogany desk, his presence as commanding as ever. Across from him sat two men.

The older man, likely in his late forties, had sharp features, a well-groomed beard, and an air of quiet calculation. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, exuding power and control. The younger man beside him, no older than his early twenties, had a striking resemblance to him, same strong jawline, same piercing eyes. But there was something else in his gaze, something cold and assessing.

For a fraction of a second, I thought I caught a flicker of something else, resentment? Contempt? Before it vanished behind a neutral expression.

“Ethan,” my grandfather gestured towards the empty seat across from him. “Come, sit.”

I inclined my head slightly and moved forward, lowering myself into the chair. My instincts were already alert, a silent warning prickling at the back of my mind.

“This,” my grandfather began, gesturing towards the older man, “is Victor Sinclair, your uncle.”

Victor gave a polite smile, though his eyes remained unreadable.

“And this,” my grandfather continued, turning to the younger man, “is Cole Sinclair, Victor’s son, your cousin.”

Cole’s lips curved slightly, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The hostility beneath his gaze was subtle yet undeniable.

The President leaned back in his chair, “and gentlemen, this is Ethan Sinclair, son of George and Ruby Sinclair. My lost grandson.”

Cole’s grip on the armrest tightened slightly. Even as he forced a smile, I could feel the undercurrents of displeasure. Victor, on the other hand, remained composed, nodding slightly in acknowledgment.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ethan,” Victor said smoothly. His voice was deep, refined, practiced.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” I replied, my tone just as even.

Cole leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “So, you’re the long-lost prince,” he mused, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Must be quite an adjustment.”

I met his gaze head-on. “It is. But then, adapting has never been a problem for me.”

His smirk twitched, but before he could respond, a knock sounded at the door again.

The guard’s voice rang out. “Miss Olivia is here, sir.”

Relief flickered across my grandfather’s face, and for the first time since I had entered the room, the tension eased.

“Let her in.”

The door opened, and Olivia stepped inside. Her presence was like a breath of fresh air, effortlessly commanding attention. She moved with poise, her eyes scanning the room before landing on me.

I stood as she approached, and for a moment, it felt as if the rest of the room had fallen away.

Cole’s eyes flickered with something unmistakable. Passion, raw and evident. He didn’t even try to mask it, but Olivia didn’t acknowledge it. Whatever Cole felt for her was entirely one-sided, and from the stiffness of his shoulders, I could tell he knew it too. She greeted my grandfather first, then Victor and Cole, her tone polite yet distant.

Finally, she turned to me. “Ethan,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth absent from her other greetings.

Her gaze landed on me last. “Ethan,” she said with a small nod, her voice softening slightly. Then, she turned to my grandfather. “Grandfather, I’d like to steal Ethan away for a while, if you don’t mind.”

My grandfather chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Steal him? As if I have a choice when you ask so sweetly.” He waved a hand. “Go on. Show him around.”

I didn’t miss the way Cole’s jaw tightened. Victor, however, remained composed, simply watching, observing. I kept my expression neutral as I stood and followed Olivia out of the study, her presence an unspoken shield against whatever storm I had just walked into.

As soon as we stepped into the corridor, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Well,” I muttered, “that was… something.”

Olivia shot me a knowing look. “Welcome to the Sinclair family.”

She led me through the mansion, down a grand staircase and into a hallway lined with towering portraits. The air smelled of polished wood and old money, every step we took echoing slightly against the marble floors.

“This is the family town hall,” Olivia explained as we stepped through an arched doorway.

The room was vast, its walls adorned with elaborate tapestries and gilded frames containing portraits of men and women who bore striking similarities to each other and to me.

I walked forward, my gaze landing on a massive oil painting at the far end of the room. It depicted a man seated on an ornate throne, a woman standing beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. Surrounding them were several figures, some standing tall, others kneeling as if sworn to service.