1. Destiny
1. DESTINY
T he camera flashes erupt like gunfire across the ballroom, but I don’t flinch. My political smile is a weapon—lips tilted precisely 27 degrees, teeth a subtle gleam, eyes crinkled with just enough warmth to feign sincerity without etching lines into my 21-year-old face. Senator Richard Sinclair’s daughter doesn’t merely attend fundraisers; she commands them. Tonight, the grand chandelier glints off my midnight-blue gown, the crowd’s murmurs a familiar hum of power and ambition. I’m Destiny Sinclair, the perfect political princess—and I’m about to shatter the script.
Across the room, my father’s voice booms, “There you are, Mr. Ambassador!” He steers a gray-haired dignitary through the sea of tuxedos and sequins, his charisma a spotlight I’ve lived under my entire life. It’s my cue. While Senator Sinclair dazzles with promises he might not keep, I slip away, a shadow in silk. My gown’s hem brushes my ankles as I hike it just enough to move—scandal be damned.
The hallway to my father’s private study stretches ahead, lined with framed photos of him shaking hands with three different presidents. Their smug smiles mock me as I check my diamond-encrusted watch—a bribe from some oil baron currying favor. Seven minutes before I’m missed. My pulse thuds, a mix of fear and something sharper—rebellion, maybe. Twenty-one years as a polished prop, and now I’m breaking free, if only for a moment.
Outside the study door, I pause, ears straining. A muffled voice seeps through the oak—my father’s, low and clipped. “Genetic markers are holding stable in Subject A. We’re on schedule.” My breath catches. Subject A? The words twist in my gut, cryptic and cold. His voice cuts off, replaced by the faint clink of a glass. He’s on the phone—alone, then. I shake it off, filing it away as I slide a hairpin from my updo. Thank you, YouTube lock-picking tutorials. The lock clicks in under a minute, and the door creaks open, louder than a gunshot to my keyed-up nerves.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. Where are you?? Dad’s asking. RED ALERT. Dahlia, my twin sister, my lifeline in this gilded cage. Need 5 min. Stall him, I text back, slipping into the darkened study.
Leather, whiskey, and secrets permeate the air. Moonlight spills through towering windows, painting the room in silver. No need for lights—I know this space like my own skin. I beeline for the mahogany desk, the heart of my father’s empire. The top drawer’s locked, but the key’s taped beneath his "Statesman of the Year" award. Predictable.
A cream-colored folder waits inside, unmarked but heavy with significance. I’ve caught him stashing it away too many times, his movements too furtive for it to be mundane. My fingers tremble as I open it, phone flashlight casting stark shadows across the pages. Offshore accounts—millions funneled to “Blackwood Corporation” and something called “Project Oracle.” Cayman Islands banks, staggering sums. Then, medical reports. My medical reports. “Subject A demonstrates ideal response to stimuli. Genetic markers holding stable. Superior emotional regulation compared to Subject B.” Subject B—Dahlia? My throat tightens. What the hell is this?
A memory flickers—me at ten, sobbing at a ribbon-cutting when a little girl handed me a wilted flower. Father’s grip on my shoulder, his voice ice: “Sinclairs aren’t allowed weaknesses, Destiny. Dry your tears or stay home.” I’d swallowed the lump, smiled for the cameras. Now, staring at these files, that lesson feels like a lie.
I snap photos, fingers frantic. A page labeled “Sinclair Legacy” details a genetic profile no public servant should have, and?—
“Looking for something specific, Miss Sinclair?”
The voice cuts through the silence, deep and steady. I jolt, the folder slipping from my hands to scatter across the desk. A man stands in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair cropped military-short. His eyes slice through my facade like a blade. Not one of Father’s usual guards—I know them all. My clutch thumps to the floor as I spin to face him.
“Who are you?” I demand, aiming for authority but landing on breathless. “How did you get in here?”
He steps forward, flicking on a desk lamp. Amber light reveals the sharp lines of his jaw, the subtle bulge of a holster beneath his tailored suit. Armed. Perfect.
“Shane Blackwood,” he says, voice a low rumble that stirs something inconvenient in my chest. “Your father’s new head of security.”
Blackwood. The name on the files. Coincidence? Hell no.
“Well, Mr. Blackwood,” I say, easing the folder behind me with feigned nonchalance, “I was just grabbing my father’s speech notes. The ambassador?—”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he cuts in, shutting the door with a soft click that echoes like a lock turning. “For a politician’s daughter, that’s almost impressive.”
He crosses the room, all predatory grace, stopping close enough that his cologne—sandalwood and something wild—clouds my senses. My training kicks in: slight smile, steady gaze, fake it ‘til you make it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I try, backing up until the desk digs into my thighs.
He nods at my phone, lips twitching—amusement or disdain, I can’t tell. “The documents you were photographing. Offshore accounts. Medical records you shouldn’t have.”
Panic flares, hot and sharp. If he tells my father?—
“Relax,” he says, reading me too easily. “I’m not telling the senator.”
Relief floods me, chased by suspicion. “Why not?”
His eyes flicker—a decision made. “Because I want to know why Blackwood Corporation is getting millions from your father’s accounts.”
Wait, what? “Isn’t that your company?” I gesture at his name tag.
He laughs, a humorless sound. “No relation.” A lie—I feel it in my bones. “But I’m damn curious what he’s buying.”
My phone buzzes. MAYDAY! Father headed your way with the Japanese ambassador! GET OUT NOW! Dahlia’s panic leaps off the screen.
“Shit,” I mutter, decorum gone.
“This way,” Shane says, snatching the folder and my hand in one fluid move. His touch jolts me—electric, startling us both. Our eyes lock for a split second, his widening faintly before he pulls me toward a hidden door behind a bookshelf. “Service corridor. Back to the hall, unseen.”
I follow, dazed by his shoulders—broad, commanding, a force in Tom Ford. The corridor’s dim, smelling of polish. His hand, warm and callused, grips mine. Not a politician’s hands—soldier’s hands.
“Why help me?” I ask, voice echoing in the narrow space.
He glances back, unreadable. “Maybe I don’t like pawns in someone else’s game.”
Before I can press, we reach another door. He listens, then nods. “Clear.” It opens to an alcove off the ballroom, potted palms shielding us from the gala’s glitter.
“Your father entered from the south twenty seconds ago,” Shane says, tapping his earpiece. “He’ll be looking.”
“How do you?—”
“My team has eyes everywhere,” he says, releasing me. I miss his warmth more than I should. He hands me the folder. “This isn’t over.”
He vanishes into the corridor, leaving me clutching evidence and questions. Thirty seconds to reset—folder in my clutch, hair smoothed, smile reapplied.
“Destiny!” Father’s voice booms as I step into the light. “The ambassador was asking about your literacy work.”
I glide over, flawless. “Ambassador Tanaka, a pleasure,” I say, hand extended. Across the room, Shane watches from the bar, flanked by two men—one with a charmer’s grin, the other with storm-gray eyes that miss nothing. My new shadows.
Father’s hand clamps my shoulder, a silent command. But tonight, it doesn’t faze me. Something dangerous stirs—curiosity, defiance.
Hours later, the gala’s weight crushes me. I escape to the terrace, craving air. The night chills my bare shoulders, the fountain’s splash a balm. Then—shoes on stone.
“Senator’s daughter, all alone?” A voice slithers from the dark—lean, predatory, eyes gleaming. Ice floods my veins.
“Just getting air,” I say, steady despite my pounding heart. “My father’s people are inside.”
He smirks, no warmth. “Are they? The senator seemed… distracted.” He steps closer, reeking of cheap cologne and chemicals. My hand finds the panic button in my clutch.
“Back away from her. Now.” Shane’s voice slices through, lethal. He emerges, flanked by his team—the charmer’s grin gone, the quiet one blocking the exit.
The man’s hand twitches toward his jacket. “I wouldn’t,” the charmer says, light but deadly. “Three on one’s a bad bet.”
A frozen moment—then he lunges for me. Shane’s faster, a blur of muscle pinning me to his chest, his arm a shield. The attacker stumbles back, grunting.
“Run again, I break something,” Shane growls, his voice vibrating against me. The man flees, spitting, “This isn’t over.”
“Let him go, Reese,” Shane says as the charmer—Reese—moves to chase. “We need his boss, not him.”
“Perimeter secure,” the quiet one—Jace—reports, scanning the dark.
Shane’s arm stays firm. “Miss Sinclair, you hurt?”
“No,” I manage, trembling. “Who was he?”
They exchange a look—a silent pact. “That’s what we’re here to find out, Princess,” Reese says, grin flickering.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, and his smile turns real.
“Your father hired us for threats like this,” Shane says, releasing me. “Likely Blackwood Corporation.”
“The same one in the files?” I challenge.
“Yes,” he admits, eyes guarded.
“Then explain your name,” I press, folding my arms.
“It’s complicated,” Jace says, voice soft but firm, still watching the shadows.
“Uncomplicate it.”
“Not here,” Shane says. “Too exposed.”
“Safe room, east wing,” Jace suggests.
I nod. “Fine. But I want truth—no doublespeak.”
“Deal,” Shane says, his hand settling on my back—protective, not possessive—as we head inside.
Father spots me, waving me over. Shane nods—play along. I cross the room, smile intact, feeling their eyes—Shane’s intense, Reese’s playful, Jace’s watchful. The game’s stakes just soared.
Back with Father, I perform, but my head spins—not just from secrets or threats. A faint dizziness grips me, fleeting. Stress, I tell myself, shaking it off.
Across the room, Shane raises his glass, a silent game on . I smile—real this time. Whatever’s coming, I’m ready to play.