The Sinclair name was built on legacies — oil first, then real estate, then banking. But Arabella had carved out her own space in the empire, tucked neatly inside the company's luxury lifestyle division.
It was the least glamorous of their holdings — a high-end retail and hospitality venture folded into Sinclair Group like a tasteful afterthought. But Arabella had turned it into gold.
Unlike her brothers, who split their time between the family boardroom and their own tech startups, investment funds, or film ventures, Arabella came in at 9 a.m. sharp, heels clicking across marble floors, silk blouses sharp enough to make headlines.
The downtown office was sleek, curated, and quietly powerful just like her.
That morning, she reviewed a pitch from an Italian perfume house, signed off on a celebrity collaboration deal, and met with her VP about expanding into Dubai. By noon, she'd done more than Preston accomplished in a week.
As she typed a note into her iPad, her phone buzzed.
Preston
💬 Dinner tonight? 8:30? Figured we could finally try that place you mentioned forever ago was it the French one with the weird menu?
Arabella blinked at the screen.
He remembered. Barely. But it was something.
💬 Sure. Le Fumée. I'll make a reservation.
💬 Great. Looking forward to it. You'll look stunning, obviously.
It had been weeks maybe months since they'd gone out just the two of them. No galas, no corporate dinners, no obligations. Just a date.
Part of her felt hopeful.
The other part was already tired.
By the time she arrived at Le Fumée that evening, she was dressed in a deep sapphire silk gown, low-cut but elegant, paired with delicate gold cuffs and a blowout that fell in waves down her back. She looked exactly like the woman Preston always liked on his arm beautiful, composed, mysterious just enough to be talked about but never questioned.
He arrived fifteen minutes late.
As always.
"Sorry," he said, kissing her cheek as he slid into the booth across from her. "Got held up in a meeting."
"No problem," she said, not meaning it.
The restaurant was moody and refined, with soft candlelight and a fog of expensive perfume hanging in the air. Arabella ordered a Syrah. Preston, a gin and tonic.
They made polite conversation over appetizers his week, her office expansion, a cousin's engagement party neither of them wanted to attend.
It wasn't bad. Just… shallow.
By the main course, he was scrolling through an article about electric yachts while she stared at him across the table.
"You've never asked what I actually do," she said softly.
He looked up. "What do you mean? You work with the lifestyle brand. You… oversee things."
"I run the brand," she corrected. "Rebuilt it from the ground up. Restructured international licensing, grew profit margins by twenty percent in under two years."
Preston blinked. "I knew you were busy. I just didn't realize the numbers were like that."
"I've told you before."
He paused, then shrugged. "It's hard to keep up sometimes. You're kind of… everywhere."
She tilted her head. "Do you know the name of the designer I launched last quarter?"
"I… no."
"Do you know what i did last night?"
"Didn't you stay in?" he asked, confused.
She laughed, dry and humorless, "There you go making assumptions instead of finding out facts".
Preston cleared his throat and reached for his drink. "Why are you coming at me like this?"
"I'm not," she said, folding her napkin. "I'm just realizing something."
"Realizing what?"
Arabella looked at him. Really looked. Perfect jawline. Impeccable suit. A man who played the part but had never truly known her not once in three years.
"That I've spent a long time being invisible next to someone who wants to be seen."
Preston frowned, clearly unsettled. "I think you're being a little dramatic."
"No," she said calmly. "I think I'm finally being honest."
After dinner, he offered to call a car. She declined.
As she stepped into the cool night air, Arabella took a slow, deliberate breath.
Three years, and he didn't know her favorite color. Her childhood fears. The way she liked her coffee, what she loved when she wasn't trying to impress anyone.
Arabella didn't believe in fate.
But she did believe in signs.
And that one was burning just for her.