Chapter 103 Royalty
As Hugo drove home, his earlier discussion with Sophie kept replaying in his head. He did his best to act calm, but the truth was far from it. Dinner with Margarete Sinclair. Just the thought of it made his grip on the wheel tighten.
He knew her too well, not personally, but through Ethan. And if Ethan's perspective was anything to go by, Margarete was not the kind of woman one could charm with flowers and polite smiles. Cold. Authoritative. A woman who carried herself like a queen in her own empire. Glamorous in a way that turned heads, yet sharp enough that one careless word could cut a man down to size.
She thrived in wealth and control, basked in the Sinclair name like it was a crown she refused to set aside. And that was the problem, Hugo wasn't wealthy, not in the way Margarete expected her daughter's companion to be. He could already imagine the measured glances, the pointed questions designed to remind him of his place.
At first, he thought he feared Ethan's reaction to Sophie's secret, but now? This felt worse. Ethan's wrath was predictable, but Margarete's, though, would be quiet, deliberate, and possibly devastating.
The words Sophie had spoken replayed in his ears over and over, each repetition making his chest heavier. Dinner with Margarete Sinclair. He wasn't sure if he was walking into a test... or a trap.
Hugo leaned back against the car seat, reluctant to move. The apartment building before him wasn't modest by any means, it was sleek, glass-fronted, the kind of place where rent alone could rival a man's yearly salary. Inside, every detail was polished: fine leather, steel fixtures, a balcony with a view of the city skyline. Years of his father's loyalty to the Sinclairs had ensured that Hugo grew up with wealth and comfort, and in his own right, he lived well.
But there was wealth, and then there was Sinclair wealth. His was real, tangible, enviable to most. Theirs was something else entirely, vast, untouchable, the kind that bent laws and bought crowns. Hugo had always felt the difference, even when he was a boy.
His father had worked his whole life for Max Sinclair. He hadn't just been an employee, he had been loyal in the way few men were, almost devoted. And Max, in turn, had shaped Hugo's life long before Hugo had understood it. From the moment he could walk, Hugo was groomed to stand by Ethan. Not to surpass him, not to compete, but to support him. To be there.
At first, it felt like friendship. Running through the wide halls of the Sinclair estate, whispering secrets when they were supposed to be asleep. For a while, Ethan had been more like a brother than a friend. But then the reminders began, subtle from Max, sharper from his father.
"Ethan is the heir, Hugo. You're his companion. That's your place. Don't forget it."
He hadn't forgotten. How could he? The line had been drawn again and again until it was etched into him. Ethan received the praise, the future, the name. Hugo received the role of standing just to the side, the invisible hand steadying the crown.
Being an only child had made it heavier. When the laughter of the day ended, when Ethan returned to his family and his gilded world, Hugo went home to quiet halls and long silences. His father spoke more about the Sinclairs' fortunes than their own, as if Hugo's entire existence was tied to Ethan's shadow.
And yet, they weren't poor. His father's years of loyalty had given them comfort, even wealth by most standards. But not Sinclair wealth. Not the kind that dripped from every chandelier, that hung off Margarete's wrist in diamonds, that carved Ethan into the untouchable figure everyone respected, or feared.
That was what made Sophie's words so heavy. Dinner with Margarete Sinclair wasn't just a meal, it was a reckoning. Margarete would see all of this in a glance. She would see the boy Max had groomed into Ethan's shadow, the son of a loyal man who had built his life serving the Sinclairs. She would see someone comfortable, yes, but not equal. Never equal.
Hugo pushed the car door open at last, stepping into the cool night. His own world waited behind that apartment door.as he stood there, keys in hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how much he had, it would never be enough for the world he was about to face.
The door clicked shut behind him, locking out the hum of the city. The apartment was quiet, the kind of silence Hugo used to find suffocating. Tonight, though, he let it settle around him. He dropped his keys on the marble counter and loosened his tie, running a hand through his hair.
He should have felt restless. should have been pacing, turning the thought of Margarete Sinclair over and over in his mind. And for a moment, he almost did. The weight of her presence loomed in his imagination: her cool eyes, her measured voice, her subtle disapproval disguised as civility. But then, as he sank into the leather couch, his mind shifted, unbidden, to Sophie.
Sophie, her name alone eased the tightness in his chest.
He remembered the first time he had really noticed her, not just as Ethan's sister but as herself. She had laughed at something small, something he didn't even find funny at the time, but the sound had lingered. Clear, unguarded, alive. In a world where people weighed every word, every smile, she had been genuine.
That memory steadied him more than he expected.
She didn't see him as the employee's son, the shadow bred to stand at Ethan's side. She saw the man he was when no one else was watching. With her, he wasn't defined by where he came from or how much money he had. He was just Hugo, the man who made her laugh, the man she trusted enough to whisper her fears to, the man she chose.
His chest tightened with something fierce and protective. Sophie didn't deserve to be used as a pawn in the endless Sinclair games. She didn't deserve to have her happiness measured in bank accounts or pedigrees. If Margarete wanted to test him, to weigh him against impossible standards, then let her. He could withstand it. Because his love for Sophie was larger than his fear.
Hugo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He thought of her face, the softness in her eyes when she spoke to him, the quiet strength she carried even when she doubted herself. He thought of the way her hand felt when it slipped into his, light yet certain, as though she believed he could carry the world if he had to.
And perhaps he could, if it was for her.
Resolve settled in his chest, firm and steady. He had lived his whole life in the shadow of the Sinclairs, measured and reminded of what he wasn't. But Sophie reminded him of what he was. And that was enough.
The dinner with Margarete no longer felt like a trap. It was a trial, yes, but one he was willing to face. Not for approval, not for wealth, not for pride. For Sophie. For the chance to stand beside her openly, without apology.
He sat back at last, calmer than he had been all evening. He would walk in as Sophie's choice. And that, he realized, was the one thing even Margarete Sinclair couldn't take from him.