3. Destiny
Life’s biggest moments always hit when I’m wearing my ugliest underwear—threadbare cotton that’d make a nun blush. It’s 1 AM, and I’m creeping back into the Sinclair mansion, heels dangling from one hand, still buzzing from last night’s masquerade. My skin’s alive with phantom sparks—hands on my waist, a stranger’s eyes seeing me , that almost-kiss against the car door haunting me more than any real one ever has.
The mansion looms behind me, all stone and silent judgment, as I slip through the side entrance. Getting caught sneaking in would be a PR disaster— Senator’s Daughter Gone Wild: Film at Eleven . Father’s team would ship me to some Swiss finishing school faster than you can say “spin control.” Do those still exist? God, I hope not.
“Well, well, well,” a voice purrs from the dark. “What’s the politically-approved cat dragged in?”
I nearly leap out of my skin before spotting Dahlia sprawled on a chaise in the sunroom, moonlight glinting off her Cheshire grin. “Jesus, Dahlia! You scared me half to death.”
“Only half? Slacking, then.” She sits up, mischief dancing in eyes that mirror mine. “Expected you an hour ago. Someone get lucky at the masquerade?”
“Dahlia!” I hiss, glancing toward the staff wing—empty, but my heart’s still hammering from the night. “Keep it down.”
She pats the chaise. “Spill. Juicy details, not the C-SPAN edit. I didn’t lie to Father for a boring recap.”
I flop beside her, kicking my feet onto an ottoman worth more than most people’s rent. The cool leather’s a lifeline against my overheated skin. “What’d you tell him?”
“Migraine, bed early, do-not-disturb.” She waves it off. “He was too busy kissing the Secretary of Defense’s ass to care. Now quit stalling—details. Your lipstick’s smudged, by the way.”
My hand flies to my mouth, cheeks burning. Is it smudged, or is she fishing? That near-kiss—his breath on my lips, his muttered “Sorry”—has me guilty as sin either way. “It was… intense,” I manage, lamest word ever.
“Intense?” She rolls her eyes so hard I see it in the dark. “You, with your fancy vocab and perfect SATs? Give me something, Des. Tongue?”
“Dahlia!” I’m laughing now, the night’s knots loosening under her relentless prodding. She’s my anchor—the only one who treats me like a normal 21-year-old, not a political pawn.
“Fine.” I exhale, sorting the mess in my chest. “I danced with a guy who saw me . Not Senator Sinclair’s kid, not a bargaining chip—just me.”
Her teasing fades to real interest. “Wow. That’s big for you.”
“I know. And weird—he knew stuff. Said political monuments were ‘too deliberate,’ like he gets my life.”
“Tall, dark, and psychic. I’m hooked.” She leans in. “Then what?”
“Nothing. We were… I think we were about to kiss, and he just walked away. ‘Better this way,’ he said.”
“Ugh, men.” She flops back, dramatic as ever. “Ditching before the fun. Wait—what about the new security trio? Those thirst traps Father hired? Spot them there?”
My brain trips. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. The one who could benchpress the Lincoln Memorial—Shane something?”
“Shane Blackwood,” I say, pulse quickening.
“That’s him!” She snaps her fingers. “Though I’m eyeing the charmer with the troublemaker grin—Reese?”
“I haven’t?—”
“Liar,” she smirks, seeing through me. “You’ve scoped all three.”
“I have not,” I protest, heat climbing my neck.
“Sure. And I don’t have enough dirt to tank Father’s career.” She pulls a laptop from under the ottoman. “Speaking of secrets, let’s dig into Father’s stash.”
“What are you doing?” I watch her boot it up.
“Caught something at his last dinner—‘Project Oracle.’ Been poking around.”
I freeze. “You know about that?”
Her turn to blink. “You do?”
I hesitate, then decide—if I can’t trust my twin, who? I show her the study photos on my phone. Her eyes widen, scrolling. “Holy shit, Des. ‘Subject A demonstrates ideal response’? ‘Genetic markers stable’? This is mad scientist crap, not daughter files.”
“I know. And here—” I point to the financials. “Millions to Blackwood Corporation.”
“Blackwood,” she echoes. “As in Shane Blackwood?”
“He says no relation, but…”
“But that’s as likely as Father turning socialist.” She types fast, pulling corporate records. “Blackwood’s into pharma, military, genetics. CEO’s Marcus Blackwood.”
“Shane related to him?”
“Related? Could be him—or his spy.” She spins the screen. “No pics of Marcus. Shy for a big shot.”
My stomach chills. “So my protector might be watching me for them?”
“Or against them,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Espionage, betrayal—juicy stuff.”
A noise outside—soft, sharp. I hold my breath, counting, until a bird calls. “Wind,” Dahlia says, checking locks anyway. “But with this…”
She trails off. At the window, her profile—mine, yet freer—glows in streetlight. “Des,” she says, odd. “Someone’s out there.”
I join her, goosebumps rising. A shadow—too dark, too solid—watches. Eyes glint, then it’s gone, melting into the lawn. “Security?” I ask, voice thin.
“Maybe. Or Blackwood.” She turns, fierce. “You need answers.”
“How? Father’s got me leashed tighter than the Pentagon.”
Her wicked grin blooms—the one behind our wildest kid schemes. “You’ve got three hot bodyguards who might know. I’ve got interrogation ideas— fun ones.”
“Dahlia!” My face flames. “They’re my detail!”
“And men. With secrets.” She shrugs. “You blushed when I said Shane. Wouldn’t kick any out of bed, though.”
“I hate you,” I mutter, lying.
“You love me.” She grabs her laptop. “Thank me when you’re screwing one—or all—while cracking Father’s genetic plot.”
She’s at the door. “Oh, and Des? If your masked guy had military hair and moved like a predator, bet my trust fund it was Shane.”
The thought hits like a slap. His words, his control—Shane? My phone buzzes, yanking me back.
Morning briefing, 7 AM. My office. –Father
Reality slams in. Tomorrow, I’m the princess again—nodding, smiling, performing. Tonight, I’ll lie awake, tangled in corporations, experiments, and three men—protectors, enemies, or something I want too much.
* * *
Morning’s brutal—coffee can’t touch my sleepless haze. Breakfast is in the formal dining room, all crystal and silence, and I’m staring at Shane across the table. His hands—big, steady—wrap his mug, and I’m back against that car door, his grip pinning me, breath hot. I blink hard, flustered, fork slipping. He glances up, whiskey-brown eyes catching mine. Does he know I know?
Reese saunters in, brushing my shoulder as he passes—deliberate, electric. “Enjoyed our dance, Princess?” he whispers, low and smug. My jaw drops—it was him , bronze mask, too close. He winks, grabbing toast, leaving me reeling.
Jace sits apart, sipping coffee, storm-gray eyes tracking me. No words, just intensity—my skin tingles under it, like he’s peeling me open. I shift, unsettled, wanting to look away but can’t.
I’m a mess when I grab my jacket from the hall rack—Shane’s hangs beside it. Something falls—a faded photo, a young woman, maybe twenty, blonde, smiling. Dead? Her eyes haunt me, like I’ve seen her. I shove it back, heart racing—whose is she?
Mid-morning, I test them. Father’s in meetings; I slip out to the garden, ducking cameras. Two minutes, and Shane’s there, hauling me back by the arm. “Don’t, Destiny,” he growls, authority thick. Reese leans on the gate, grinning. “Nice try, Princess.” Jace watches from the porch, silent, cataloging. They’re fast—too fast.
At 7 AM, Father’s briefing drones—policy, optics, my role as prop. I’m nodding until he snaps, “Pay attention, Destiny.” Something snaps back. “I’m not a prop today,” I say, quiet, firm. His eyes narrow, but he moves on. Small, but mine.
Day drags—meetings, smiles, Shane’s hands in my head, Reese’s whisper, Jace’s stare. Late afternoon, a maid—new, nervous—presses a note into my hand as she passes. “They’re watching, run,” it reads, scrawled. I turn—she’s gone, vanished down the hall. My pulse spikes—who’s “they”?
Night falls; I’m fried. In my bathroom, I crank the shower cold—freezing, punishing. Water stings, but it’s not enough. Shane’s grip, Reese’s tease, Jace’s eyes—they’re under my skin, three men I shouldn’t want, can’t have. I’m shivering, confused, drowning in secrets and heat I don’t understand.