Chapter 113 To Bury a Hatchet
Sophie could never understand the power struggle that went on behind closed doors. To her, the Sinclair name was simply their family name, something that sounded grand but meant little beyond that. But for Ethan, it was a battlefield.
After Max Sinclair's death, the family's calm veneer cracked. Several of Ethan's uncles rose up, each trying to seize control of the empire Max had built. Greed, resentment, and old rivalries resurfaced like ghosts, threatening to tear the Sinclair legacy apart.
But they had underestimated the young man Max had left behind.
Ethan had been publicly named as his grandfather's successor when he was still a boy, a decision that had shocked the entire family. Many thought it was a stunt, a symbolic gesture that would fade with time. But it hadn't. When Max died, the title of Sinclair heir became very real, Ethan had stepped into the storm without flinching.
With Sir Levi's support, his grandfather's younger brother and oldest ally Ethan had managed to keep the company and the family from splintering. He stood his ground and became the head of the Sinclair family, carrying a burden far heavier than his years.
But even in the middle of all that chaos, one thing had remained sacred to him: Sophie.
He had warned every member of the family, every uncle, every cousin, to leave her out of their schemes. His decision to become her legal guardian hadn't just been about care or control; it was protection. Ethan had seen the way power corrupted men, and he refused to let his little sister become anyone's pawn.
So Sophie lived a peaceful, happy life, blissfully unaware of the quiet shadows that followed her. She would never have guessed that her brother had people keeping tabs on her every move, not out of mistrust, but out of love and precaution.
To her, life was simple and lighthearted. She spent her days drifting from one boutique to another, discovering new hobbies, laughing freely, living exactly how she pleased. And Ethan let her. He allowed her the freedom to breathe, to make mistakes, to be young, things he himself had never truly known.
Ethan didn't even know what that kind of freedom felt like. His life had never been his own.
Every hour of his day was scheduled long before it arrived. His meetings, his routines, even the clothes he wore were decided in advance, once upon a time, even his underwear had been laid out for him by Max Sinclair's staff.
It had always been that way. Max believed that a true Sinclair had no room for uncertainty, no space for indulgence. Everything was about control, precision, and preparation. Ethan had grown up inside that structure, molded and disciplined until there was no part of him that wasn't trained to serve the family name.
He hadn't needed to make choices, his path had already been written for him. Max knew exactly what kind of legacy he was leaving behind, and he had made sure Ethan would be strong enough, ruthless enough, to carry it.
And so, while Sophie lived in color and ease, Ethan lived in quiet order and restraint, their lives running parallel, yet worlds apart.
After nearly an hour of conversation, Margarete decided that was enough serious talk for one evening. The mood had grown far too heavy for her liking, and she was eager to steer them back to something lighter. So she did what she did best, she charmed.
Before long, she was telling stories that made Hugo laugh until his shoulders relaxed completely. Her voice carried that effortless warmth that only mothers possessed, full of depth, authenticity, and a touch of humor that made everything she said feel alive. Hugo found himself listening with genuine admiration, as though each story peeled back a layer of the woman he'd only seen in glimpses before.
By the time the clock struck ten, Margarete glanced at it and frowned softly. "Goodness, it's already this late?" she said. "You shouldn't drive back tonight. The road to the city isn't very kind after dark."
Hugo hesitated, half-smiling. "I appreciate it, but I've got work tomorrow. I should probably get some rest at home."
"Nonsense," Margarete countered lightly. "You can wake up an hour earlier, drive to the office, and stop by a boutique to grab a fresh outfit on your way. Or drop by home quickly to change if you must. Either way, you'll survive."
Her tone was firm but motherly, the kind that left little room for argument. After a moment, Hugo gave a quiet chuckle and nodded. "Alright," he said. "I'll stay."
Margarete's smile softened. "Good. Then it's settled."
Sophie was practically glowing with excitement that Hugo would be spending the night. She had never slept at his place, and he had never slept at hers. The idea of sharing even a single night felt thrillingly new.
"We're gonna have a sleepover!" she whispered, bouncing slightly on the couch. Her voice, however, carried a little more than she realized. Margarete, seated nearby, perked up immediately and raised an eyebrow.
"Sleepover, huh?" she said lightly, calling out without missing a beat, "Clara, please prepare a room for Hugo."
Sophie's playful frown appeared instantly, her lips pursed in mock indignation. "But... we could have a sleepover here!" she protested, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement.
Margerate's smile was gentle but firm. "You can have your sleepover, Sophie, or but not in my house."
Hugo chuckled, shaking his head at the mother-daughter dynamic. "Of course," he said, his tone easy. "I've had a long day and I'd like to sleep in peace, not be faced with your... over-hyperactiveness," he added, nodding toward Sophie with a teasing grin.
Sophie rolled her eyes dramatically, but couldn't hide her laughter. "Hyperactive ? Me? Never!"
Hugo's laughter joined hers, and even Margarete's smile widened.
The evening stretched on, and conversation flowed easily between them. This time, Margarete took a more deliberate approach, her curiosity getting the better of her. She leaned forward, asking Hugo questions that were far more personal than before, about his childhood, his family, the things he valued most, and even how he handled challenges.
Hugo answered with honesty, sometimes pausing thoughtfully, other times letting a small laugh escape at the memory of something trivial or embarrassing. Margarete listened intently, occasionally nodding or smiling at his responses, her sharp eyes reading far more than his words.
At first, Hugo noticed her inquisitiveness and felt a little scrutinized, but it was never uncomfortable. Her questions were genuine, carefully aimed at understanding him, not prying for mischief. Slowly, he found himself opening up in a way he rarely did with anyone outside his professional life.
Margarete, meanwhile, quietly assessed everything she heard. The way he spoke, the choices he had made, the respect he showed Sophie, even the subtle humor in his voice , all of it pleased her. She smiled inwardly, letting herself acknowledge a thought she rarely admitted aloud: he was indeed a good person. The kind of man she could trust around her daughter.
Eventually, the clock reminded them it was late. Margarete waved her hand lightly. "Alright, I think that's enough for tonight," she said warmly. "Hugo, let me show you to your room."
Hugo stood, giving Sophie a small grin, while she let out a dramatic sigh of disappointment. The night had been wonderful, but sleep called and tomorrow, the world would return to its usual rhythm.