Chapter 3

Ethan Sinclair had always been a man who thrived in solitude.

From the outside, he was the epitome of composure—sharp, disciplined, and untouchable. He moved through life with a quiet intensity, a man who spoke only when necessary and let his work do the talking. A perfectionist by nature, a visionary by passion. Everything he touched carried a piece of his soul, yet he rarely let anyone close enough to see the depths of it.

New York had raised him, but it had also hardened him. The Sinclair name was synonymous with power in the world of architecture and design, a legacy built by his grandfather, Richard Sinclair. His father, Christopher Sinclair, carried that torch with an iron grip, a man who saw life in blueprints and numbers rather than in emotions and connections.

Ethan had learned early that love was a distraction, emotions were a liability, and success was the only currency that mattered.

His mother, Juliet Sinclair, had once been the warmth in his life—soft-spoken but never weak. She had been the only one who saw him beyond the titles, the expectations, the perfection. But even she had her limits. When Ethan was eighteen, she left. Walked away from the Sinclair empire, from the cold, rigid world his father had built, and never looked back.

Ethan never asked her to stay.

She had tried, in her own way, to reach him before she left.

"Ethan, you don't have to be like him," her voice had been gentle, her eyes searching his. "You don't have to carry this weight alone."

But Ethan had simply stood there, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"It doesn't matter," he had said.

That was the last real conversation they ever had.

Now, years later, he carried his father's name but none of his warmth. He had built his own empire within the family legacy—his own name whispered in the halls of architecture's elite. His designs weren't just buildings; they were statements. Bold. Unconventional. Much like the man behind them.

Where others sought stability, he sought innovation.

Where others played it safe, he walked the edge.

And he had no patience for those who didn't keep up.

People found him difficult. Too intense. Too precise. Too unyielding.

He didn't care.

He had no interest in small talk, no tolerance for mediocrity. Relationships required vulnerability, and Ethan had spent his whole life perfecting the art of restraint.

There were few people who knew him beyond the sharp edges.

And then, there was Jade Blackwood.

His best friend. The only person who had ever challenged him and lived to tell the tale.

Jade had been the chaos to Ethan's order since their university days. A renowned interior designer with a knack for breaking rules and turning spaces into emotions. Where Ethan was calculated, Jade was reckless. Where Ethan built walls, Jade kicked them down.

"Still brooding?" Jade's voice cut through the silence of Ethan's office.

"I don't brood," Ethan didn't bother looking up from his sketches. 

"Sure, and I don't drink overpriced coffee. You know, for a man who creates some of the most breathtaking structures in the world, you really don't let yourself enjoy anything," Jade let out a low laugh, dropping into the chair across from him. 

"Enjoyment is irrelevant. The work speaks for itself," Ethan's pen paused briefly before he continued sketching. 

"God, you and your damn control issues," Jade sighed, shaking his head.

"You remind me of David, you know that?" he leaned back, studying Ethan. 

Ethan's jaw tensed at the comparison. He had heard it before.

David was his cousin. His rival. The only person who ever truly understood what it meant to bear the weight of the Sinclair name and yet chose a different path.

Ethan had admired him once. Before everything fell apart.

"He was too impulsive," Ethan said finally, his voice devoid of emotion. "Acted on feelings instead of reason."

"And yet, he built something real," Jade countered. "He knew when to walk away from what didn't serve him. Can you say the same?"

Ethan didn't answer.

"One day, you're going to have to figure out what matters, Sinclair. And when that day comes, I just hope it's not too late," Jade exhaled and stood up. 

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Ethan alone with his thoughts.

The city skyline stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, the lights flickering like distant constellations. He had built everything he had ever wanted.

And yet, something felt… unfinished.

But Ethan Sinclair was not a man who entertained regrets.

So, he turned back to his work, drowning out the echoes of the past with the sharp precision of ink against paper.

Because love, fate, and second chances—those were stories for other people.

Not for him.

Never for him.