The grand hall of the Sinclair Mansion was silent once more.
The echoes of sharp conversation, laughter masked in tension, and strategic promises faded with the rumble of departing cars and the fading beat of helicopter blades cutting through the night.
Only Robert Sinclair remained — standing alone before the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantle, the other holding a half-finished glass of untouched brandy.
The flames cracked and danced, casting long shadows against the aged stone walls. His reflection flickered faintly in the mirror above the mantle — a man of power, feared by governments and criminals alike.
But behind that image was a man hollowed by loss.
His fingers tightened slightly.
The scent of jasmine — faint but haunting — still lingered in this room, even after all these years. It was as if she had never left.
"Elena…" he murmured under his breath.
He didn't speak her name often. Not in public. Not even in private. But tonight, after the talks, after the threats and alliances, her memory came flooding back like a blade through the chest.
The last time she stood in this very room, the fire had been the same. But her eyes… her eyes had been full of tears.
"Robert," she had said, her voice quiet but firm, "if anything happens to me… promise me you'll keep Ryan out of that life."
He'd stayed silent then. Like a fool.
So she had stepped closer, touched his face, and smiled — that small, unshakeable smile that had once softened a man carved in stone.
"I know what you are. I accepted it when I married you. But Ryan… he's still untainted. Let him choose who he wants to be."
He'd eventually nodded, because he would've agreed to anything if it meant easing her pain in those final days.
And then… she was gone.
Elena Sinclair. His only equal. The only one who'd ever stood beside him not as a shadow, but as a light.
Her death wasn't clean. It wasn't natural.
There were whispers. Enemies. Mistakes that had come home to collect their due.
And though the world was told it was a sudden illness, Robert always knew better.
She died because of his world.
He had failed her, even before her final breath.
And now, watching Ryan grow — so much like her… not in strength, but in spirit — it both filled Robert with pride and terrified him.
Because he could already see it — Ryan stepping deeper into the same fire Elena begged him to shield their son from.
The crackling of the fire grew louder as if echoing his regret.
He took a long breath and exhaled slowly.
"I've tried to keep him away… but he walks toward it on his own," Robert whispered to the empty room.
He glanced toward the large portrait above the fireplace — Elena, captured in soft oil tones, her eyes locked onto him across time.
"I'll protect him. Even if I have to destroy everything I built to do it."
Behind him, Marcus quietly entered the room, sensing the storm within his master but saying nothing.
Robert didn't turn.
"Make sure Ryan's security tightens around the school. Discreetly."
"Yes, sir," Marcus said quietly.
"And Marcus…"
The older man paused.
"…If anything happens to him," Robert continued, his voice grave, "I want the city to bleed."
Marcus lowered his head.
"It will."
As Marcus disappeared into the darkened hall once more, Robert remained there, still — not as the head of the Sinclair Empire.
But as a father.
A father bound by a promise…
…to a woman whose love still warmed this mansion more than the fire ever could.