Chapter 3 - THE NAME HE NEVER GAVE ME
I stopped smiling.
Marcus felt it.
His fingers pressed harder against my waist.
“What’s wrong?”
Across the ballroom, Damian’s eyes met mine.
He knew I had heard.
For three years, I had known him as Damian.
Just Damian.
The man who clipped grocery coupons despite pretending he didn’t.
The man who repaired the same pair of boots twice because replacing them was “wasteful.”
The man who worked unpredictable consulting jobs, carried his belongings in one battered leather case when we met, and once spent forty minutes arguing with a utility company over a sixteen-dollar charge.
Mr. Sinclair.
The name moved through my head like a dropped glass.
Sinclair.
There were only a few Sinclairs in New York who could make Henry Merrick bow.
And one family owned enough banks, hotels, shipping interests, technology holdings, and commercial property to make Ellison Group look like a neighborhood store.
Marcus noticed where I was looking.
His entire body stiffened.
“Why is he here?”
“You know him?”
Marcus ignored me.
He stepped away so abruptly that a photographer lowered his camera.
Then Marcus crossed the room.
I followed.
Damian watched him come.
No fear.
No surprise.
That bothered me most.
Marcus stopped three feet away.
“You.”
Damian nodded.
“Marcus.”
Not Mr. Ellison.
Not sir.
Marcus.
“You were told to stay away from this company.”
Damian’s expression remained calm.
“I don’t recall you being in a position to tell me anything.”
My stomach dropped.
“You two know each other.”
Damian looked at me.
“Yes.”
One word.
Three years of trust cracked straight down the middle.
Marcus laughed.
It was ugly and delighted.
“Oh, this is marvelous.”
“Marcus,” Damian warned.
“No. She deserves this.”
I stepped between them.
“Someone is going to explain.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
“My full name is Damian Alexander Sinclair.”
The room seemed to recede.
I knew that name.
Everyone did.
The Sinclair family had dominated East Coast finance for generations.
Damian Alexander Sinclair had appeared in newspapers twelve years earlier after the death of his mother, Helena.
Then he vanished from society pages.
Some articles claimed he was abroad.
Others said he had broken with his father.
One gossip magazine once called him “the missing prince of American finance.”
I had laughed at that headline.
Apparently I had been washing that missing prince’s socks.
“How much?” I asked.
His brow furrowed.
“How much what?”
“How rich are you?”
“Celeste—”
“How. Rich.”
Marcus answered.
“His personal trust is worth somewhere north of four billion.”
My knees nearly failed.
I looked at Damian.
“Tell me he’s lying.”
“He isn’t.”
Something inside me went very quiet.
“You let me split rent with you.”
“Yes.”
“I paid your dental bill.”
“That was eighty-three dollars.”
“DAMIAN.”
Several guests turned.
I didn’t care.
He lowered his voice.
“I was going to pay you back.”
“That is not the point.”
Marcus looked delighted.
“Careful, Celeste. You appear to have a type.”
I turned on him.
“Walk away.”
His smile vanished.
I had never spoken to him that way in public.
“Now.”
He walked away because he knew cameras were watching.
Damian nodded toward a private terrace.
“Please.”
I followed only because if I stayed inside, I might throw something.
Rain had begun.
Of course it had.
Apparently all catastrophic truths in my life required weather.
Damian closed the glass door.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to.”
“Not good enough.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He looked older suddenly.
“My mother died when I was twenty-six. Six months later, my father tried to push me into controlling Sinclair Capital before I was ready. Every person around me suddenly wanted something. Partnerships. Jobs. Investments. Marriage.”
“So you became poor?”
“No. I became anonymous.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
The lack of excuses made me angrier.
“I told you everything.”
“I know.”
“My marriage. My humiliation. The rooftop. My panic attacks. My finances.”
“I know.”
“And every night you watched me count money while you had billions?”
His face tightened.
“The money wasn’t what I wanted you to know.”
“You didn’t get to decide what mattered to me.”
That landed.
He looked away.
For several seconds only rain filled the silence.
Then he reached into his coat.
I stepped back.
He froze.
The hurt in his face almost broke me.
Almost.
Slowly, he removed the old pocket watch.
I had seen it hundreds of times.
Silver.
Scratched.
The hinge slightly bent.
He handed it to me.
I nearly refused.
Then I saw the lion crest.
“Open it.”
Inside was an old photograph.
A woman with dark hair stood beside a younger Damian.
Helena Sinclair.
And beside her stood another woman.
My mother.
I forgot to breathe.
“No.”
The photograph had been taken at some charity gala.
My mother looked younger.
Maybe forty.
Damian was seventeen or eighteen.
Helena had one arm around him.
My mother was holding a champagne glass.
They were laughing.
I looked up.
“What is this?”
“Your mother knew mine.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“You recognized me on that rooftop.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“I swear to you, Celeste, I didn’t.”
“When did you?”
“Two weeks later. I found an old magazine in your apartment. Your mother was in a photograph.”
My anger shifted shape.
“You knew who I was after two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“And stayed silent for three years.”
“Because the connection frightened me.”
“What connection?”
Damian closed his eyes briefly.
“My mother spent the last year of her life investigating financial fraud involving Sinclair Capital.”
My grip tightened around the watch.
“One company appeared repeatedly.”
“Harrow.”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
The terrace door opened.
Vanessa stood there.
She glanced from me to Damian.
“So she knows.”
“Knows what?” I asked.
Vanessa looked at the photograph.
Then at me.
“Celeste, Marcus didn’t steal Vale House from your mother.”
For one second, hope flashed stupidly through me.
Then Vanessa finished.
“He helped someone else do it.”
“Who?”
Damian said nothing.
Vanessa’s voice became almost a whisper.
“Helena Sinclair.”
I looked at Damian.
“No.”
He looked as stunned as I felt.
Vanessa pulled the memory card bracelet from my hand, opened the clasp, and pointed at a number engraved beneath it.
“There are transaction codes on the files. I didn’t understand them until last month.”
“What did you find?”
“Harrow’s original funding came from a Sinclair-controlled account.”
Damian shook his head.
“My mother would never—”
“I’m not saying she knew,” Vanessa said. “I’m saying someone used her authority.”
Then the ballroom lights flickered.
Inside, investors began murmuring.
Marcus stood on the stage.
He had a microphone.
And he was smiling.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “since we’re celebrating second chances tonight, I thought I’d share some excellent news.”
A presentation appeared on the screen behind him.
ELLISON-SINCLAIR REDEVELOPMENT PARTNERSHIP.
Damian went still.
Marcus continued.
“Tomorrow morning, Sinclair Capital will acquire forty-nine percent of Ellison Group’s debt.”
Applause erupted.
I turned to Damian.
“You invested in him?”
His face had gone cold.
“No.”
Marcus raised his glass.
“To family legacies.”
Damian stared at the screen.
May you like
Then he whispered something I was never supposed to hear.
“My father.”
