Chapter 27 MOTHER
Hugo stepped into his car, shut the door with a soft thud, and started the engine. The streets were quiet as he pulled out, the city slowly shifting from its mid-afternoon lull. His destination: the Sinclair mansion.
By the time he reached the estate, the security gates had already recognized his plate and swung open. He drove through the perfectly manicured grounds and parked near the main entrance where a black luxury SUV was still idling. Ethan and Lena had just arrived.
He stepped out, straightened his jacket, and approached with his usual calm composure. Ethan was already speaking to one of the staff by the door while Lena admired the rose garden she hadn't seen in weeks.
"Mr. Sinclair," Hugo greeted with a respectful nod, then turned with a soft smile, "Mrs. Sinclair."
Lena nodded politely.
"Welcome back," Hugo continued. "I trust the journey was smooth?"
Ethan gave him a firm nod.
"Good," Hugo said, glancing briefly at the luggage being unloaded behind them. "Everything's been arranged as requested. The staff has your quarters prepared, and security systems were double checked this morning."
"I also have something for you," he added quietly, lowering his voice as he turned toward Ethan, handing him a small black envelope.
Ethan took it without a word, already sensing the weight behind it.
Lena seemed unusually restless. The moment the brief exchange between Ethan and Hugo ended, she turned toward the mansion with a distracted glance.
"Is this where I'll be staying?" she asked, her tone quick, almost like she was already halfway out the door.
"Yes," Ethan replied coolly, slipping the envelope Hugo handed him into his pocket.
"Alright then," she muttered, barely pausing before heading toward the door. "I'll be back soon."
He gave a small nod toward one of the drivers nearby. "Have someone follow her."
At once, a driver began moving toward the secondary car, but Lena turned fully now, eyes narrowing.
"No, thank you," she said. "I don't want to be driven."
Ethan raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but firm. "You're a billionaire's wife now. You can't be seen hopping into a taxi or boarding a bus. That's not just about image it's about security."
There was a beat of silence. She could see it in his eyes he wasn't going to budge. Not on this.
"Fine," she said with a small sigh, her expression resigned. "Then give me the keys. I'll drive myself."
Ethan glanced at one of the attendants, who promptly handed her a set of keys. Without another word, Lena turned and headed for the car, heels clicking across the stone driveway, the engine starting a moment later as she pulled away on her own terms.
In a serene corner of Toorak, Melbourne's most prestigious neighborhood, sat a charming yet elegant home a far cry from the cold grandeur of the Sinclair empire. Margaret Sinclair's residence was refined but personal, wrapped in ivy-covered walls and shaded by towering magnolia trees. The white-brick cottage was surrounded by lush gardens she had lovingly cultivated over the years .
Margaret, sat in the heart of her garden with a watering can in hand, gently tending to a row of newly planted white lilies. Dressed in a soft blue cardigan and wide-brimmed straw hat, she moved slowly, her hands experienced, her motions deliberate. The afternoon sun warmed the stone path beneath her feet, and the air smelled faintly of rosemary and wet earth.
A maid appeared at the edge of the path, hands folded politely in front of her.
"Ma'am, your lunch is ready. Would you like it in the sunroom today?"
Margaret didn't look up. "No, just leave it in the kitchen. I'm not hungry."
The maid nodded and retreated quietly.
Margaret continued adjusting a cluster of potted succulents she had just bought that morning. She paused only when her personal assistant, Grace, appeared from the back door, tablet in hand, heels clicking lightly against the stone.
"Mrs. Sinclair," Grace said softly, "I thought you should know. Ethan's back in Melbourne. He flew in this morning."
Margaret's brows rose ever so slightly. She set down the watering can, wiping her gloved hands with a linen cloth.
"Of course he is," she muttered. "And I suppose I had to hear it from you because he couldn't be bothered to send a message."
She pulled off one glove, reached into the pocket of her apron, and retrieved her phone. Her fingers hovered briefly before tapping his private number.
It rang once. Then again. No answer.
On the third call, he finally picked up.
"Mother," came Ethan's voice, cool and detached.
Margaret sat up straighter. "Ethan. Welcome back from your honeymoon."
"Thanks," he replied dryly.
She pressed her lips into a thin line. "You never come by anymore. Never call. I always hear about you from staff or the newspapers. It's insulting."
"I've been busy," he said simply.
"Yes, well," she huffed, brushing some soil from her lap. "Make yourself less busy. Come to dinner tomorrow night."
"I can't. I have meetings-"
"You haven't properly introduced your wife to me," she cut in, sharp and measured. "Bring her. Tomorrow. Dinner's at seven."
There was silence. She could tell he was about to refuse.
So she ended the call.
Margaret stared at the phone for a long moment after the call ended, her reflection faintly visible in the black screen. The silence around her was peaceful, but it felt heavier now lonelier.
Her hand dropped to her lap, There was no mistaking it anymore. Ethan had completely detached himself from her. He never called to check in, never visited unless it was necessary. And even then, it was only when something was wrong when something needed fixing, or there was a scandal to sweep under the rug.
In her younger years, Margaret had been the center of attention in social circles, the elegant matriarch of a powerful family. But now, in her old age, all she really wanted was something far simpler her children close, laughter in the house, someone to talk to over tea.
But only Sophie, her daughter, still made the effort. It was Sophie who visited, Sophie who still remembered her birthdays, her favorite tea, the stories from their childhood. Ethan... Ethan had buried himself in business and power, shutting her out like she was just another part of his past he no longer needed.
She pulled off her gardening gloves slowly, her fingers trembling slightly.
With a deep breath, she rose from the bench, walking back into the house through the side entrance. The cozy hallway smelled faintly of lavender polish and old wood. As she passed through the kitchen, her steps slowed.
"Maria," she said quietly to the maid who was preparing lunch, "please get me my painkillers. I have a bit of a headache."
Maria turned quickly, concerned. "Yes, ma'am. Right away."
Margaret walked toward the sunroom, gently easing herself into her favorite armchair. She rested her head against the cushions and closed her eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness building behind them.
It was a quiet ache not just in her head, but somewhere deeper. One only a mother would understand.