Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Malcolm
The sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, casting long, golden streaks across the sleek, minimalistic bedroom.
The air was still, but the faint scent of expensive perfume lingered, a reminder that someone else had been here last night.
Someone whose name I barely remembered. I turned over onto my back, staring up at the high ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the city below.
The bed beside me was empty. She was gone, like they always were, slipping out without a word because they knew what this was—temporary, meaningless, forgettable.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stood and walked toward the enormous window, looking down at the city stretched before me.
New York City belonged to me in some ways.
I had built my empire from nothing, turned investments into gold, made my name one that people in boardrooms whispered about with admiration or envy.
The sleek penthouse was everything I had imagined wealth would bring—expensive art, handcrafted furniture, a fully stocked bar with whiskey that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
And yet, it was empty in ways that had nothing to do with space.
An hour later, I was showered, dressed in a crisp black suit, and stepping into the backseat of my private car, my driver already navigating the morning traffic toward my first meeting.
The routine was always the same—meetings with executives who pretended to be impressed by me, investment pitches from people who wanted my name attached to their projects, power lunches at five-star restaurants where the only thing being served was strategic alliances.
No one cared about me. They cared about what I could do for them.
That evening, I was in the grand ballroom of a luxury hotel, a whiskey in hand, nodding politely as yet another well-dressed socialite complimented my latest business ventures.
The annual charity gala was in full swing, chandeliers glittering overhead, the sound of polite laughter and clinking glasses filling the space.
Men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns moved through the crowd, all of them here to be seen.
The press snapped photos of me, eager to capture an image of the golden billionaire with a heart for philanthropy.
I took the stage when my name was called, delivering a polished speech about giving back, about supporting foster care programs, about creating opportunities for children who had none.
The words were empty, rehearsed, perfected for public perception.
I didn’t believe in them the way I once did.
The money I donated would help, sure. But it didn’t change the system. It didn’t fix what was broken.
By the time the night ended, I was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. This life—the one I had built from the ground up—should have made me feel whole. Instead, it only reminded me of everything I had left behind.
The next morning, I skipped my usual meetings. Instead, I took a detour.
The cemetery was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy. I walked the familiar path, stopping in front of two headstones I had memorized years ago. Arthur and Evelyn Sinclair. The only people who had ever called me their son.
I crouched down, brushing away a few fallen leaves from the stone. "I’m doing fine," I muttered, even though I wasn’t sure that was true. "The company’s expanding. The investments are solid. People respect me." I exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "You’d be proud." The words felt hollow.
I never talked about them. The world knew Malcolm Sinclair, billionaire investor, CEO, the youngest self-made mogul in the country.
But they didn’t know the kid who had been a scared, abandoned orphan, shuffled between foster homes, waiting for a family that never came—until Arthur and Evelyn changed everything.
They gave me their name, their home, their love. And now, they were gone.
I stood up, adjusting my cufflinks, shoving down the ache that always came when I visited. There was no point in thinking about the past.
Back at the office, my assistant, Lillian, stepped into my private office, her usual composed expression in place. "The expansion project is moving forward as planned. There’s an opportunity for new development in your hometown—a property up for grabs that could be repurposed."
I stilled, barely processing her words.
My hometown. A place I had sworn I’d never go back to.
I kept my voice even. "What kind of property?"
"An old warehouse near the city center. Good location for an office or development project."
Logically, it made sense. Strategically, it was a smart move. Emotionally, it was something else entirely.
Lillian glanced at me. "Should I pass on it?"
I exhaled slowly. "No. Look into it. Get me details."
She nodded, noting it down before looking up again. "There’s also a fundraising event next week. Should I confirm your attendance, or will you be traveling?"
I thought about the endless cycle of events, the repetitive conversations, the meaningless interactions. Then I thought about going back to a place I had buried with the rest of my past.
"Cancel my schedule for the weekend," I said before I could stop myself. "I’ll be traveling."
Lillian didn’t react, just gave a professional nod before leaving the office.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the skyline outside my window. For ten years, I had told myself there was nothing left for me in that town. But something was pulling me back, something I couldn’t quite name.
I told myself this was just business.
But deep down, I knew better.