Chapter 35 A PUSH AND A SHOVE
Ethan couldn't be bothered with the whole painting situation. Left to him, he wouldn't have meddled in Lena's private affairs at all, he had fulfilled his end of the deal and secured his company. That was all that mattered. But he also knew Lena. Leaving her to handle this alone could easily spiral into a mess, and the last thing he needed was more chaos. He just wanted to put an end to it once and for all.
Initially, he had assumed Vincent would take the generous offer he'd planned to make. He expected a straightforward negotiation, a brief dialogue between his men and Vincent. But things didn't go as planned. Vincent had attacked the man he sent. That changed everything.
So Ethan decided to go himself.
If Vincent wanted a fight, he was ready to give him one. Ethan wasn't just a man forged in boardrooms. At his grandfather's insistence, he had started Taekwondo at the age of six. After college, he'd served three years in the army, another condition of the Sinclair legacy. Ethan was prepared for whatever Vincent was in the mood for.
As Ethan stormed out of his office, his expression was cold and unreadable. His security team stood at attention, sensing the shift.
"Get ready," he ordered sharply. "I'm handling the negotiations myself."
No one dared question him.
He pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to a private number. Send me Vincent's current location. Within minutes, the reply came through a pin dropped on a dark corner of the city's industrial zone.
Without another word, Ethan slipped on his jacket and headed for the elevator. His men followed closely behind, already keyed up for whatever might come next.
They moved swiftly, engines roaring to life as the convoy tore through the streets, heading straight for the warehouse.
Vincent stood at the high window overlooking the yard, a crooked smile playing on his lips as the black SUV rolled to a stop.
"Let the show begin," he muttered, turning and heading down the stairs.
He expected to see more of the Sinclair men, maybe a full team, dressed in black, ready to throw around orders and arrogance. Good. That way, he could rough them up for free. Vincent hated the Sinclairs with a quiet, simmering venom. Everything about their name, old money, clean reputations, untouchable pride, made his skin crawl. He took a special kind of pleasure in going after anything tied to them. Today would be no different.
But as he reached the end of the stairs and stepped into the compound, his stride faltered for half a second. Standing there, calm and commanding, was Ethan Sinclair himself. Not a guard. Not a messenger. The man.
Vincent hadn't expected that.
The smirk he wore earlier flickered, but he forced it back into place, masking his surprise beneath a cold, mocking grin.
"Well well. The great man descends from the clouds. What's the occasion, Sinclair? You finally decided to get your hands dirty?"
Ethan's expression was calm, unreadable. He stepped into the space like he wasn't out of place, like he'd been in rougher rooms before. And maybe, Vincent thought, he had.
"I came for the paintings," Ethan said simply. "The ones you took from David Carter's studio."
Vincent raised a brow, amused. "Took? Strong words. Let's try another acquired."
"They don't belong to you," Ethan replied.
"I beg to differ," "I have a contract. David signed them over to me before he passed. All nice and legal."
Ethan didn't move. "Forged, most likely."
"But can you prove that?" Vincent asked, voice low with a grin. "Didn't think so. I'm not the one making noise here. You are."
Ethan took a slow breath, maintaining his composure. "How much?"
Vincent tilted his head. "Excuse me?"
"I'm offering to buy them. Whatever price you name."
Vincent chuckled. "You think this is about money? That I'd sell off pieces like that to a man who doesn't even understand what they are?"
"They're not yours to hold hostage."
"I'm not holding anything hostage, Sinclair," Vincent said, the grin slowly peeling away. "You're just not used to hearing no."
The tension in the room coiled tighter.
Ethan's eyes sharpened. "This doesn't need to get ugly."
"You walked into my space, talking like you make the rules. You're used to boardrooms, not floors with sawdust and rust. You forget this is my world."
Ethan remained silent, but his stillness was loaded, dangerous.
Vincent took a step closer, voice darker now. "You can wave your money and empty threats all you want. These pieces they're not for sale. Not to you. Not to anyone."
Before Ethan could respond, his phone buzzed in his pocket subtle and quick. He pulled it out, barely glancing at the message, but everything in his face changed.
It was a message from a private number :
"Careful. Reporters have been tippe. Vincent's trying to bait a scene. Walk away."
Ethan's gaze shifted back to Vincent, who was now standing deliberately too close. His tone sharpened.
"I see," he said coolly, slipping his phone away. "You're not just reckless, you're desperate."
Vincent blinked, taken off-guard by the sudden shift.
Ethan took a slow, deliberate step back, straightening his coat.
"Enjoy your little power trip Vincent ." He gave a dry, almost mocking smile. "You've just made a very expensive mistake."
He turned, walking away as his men fell in behind him like shadows.
As Ethan turned to leave, clearly uninterested in giving Vincent the fight he was hoping for, Vincent's expression shifted just slightly. Behind the forced smirk, frustration flickered. This wasn't how he planned it.
He took a small step back and clapped his hands twice.
Like clockwork, three of his men emerged from the shadows lean, rough, and ready, stepping into the open with practiced ease. One cracked his knuckles, another adjusted a metal pipe in his hand. They didn't speak. They didn't have to.
"Leaving so soon?" Vincent said, his voice raised just enough to carry. "You came all this way, Sinclair. At least give the boys something to remember." He was desperately trying to stall
Ethan paused but didn't turn around.
Vincent wasn't done. He gestured with his chin, and his men began closing in slow, deliberate, trying to corner Ethan's team just enough to cause tension without throwing the first punch.
He didn't need a real fight.
He just needed delay.
He needed the Sinclair name caught in the middle of chaos when the cameras arrived.
The message had already gone out. Reporters were on their way. A few minutes more and flashing lenses would capture whatever happened next.
Vincent lit another cigarette, exhaling a curl of smoke, watching carefully.
"Come on, Sinclair," he called, voice laced with mockery. "Show us if those tailored suits come with a spine."
But Ethan didn't rise to the bait
He just kept walking straight through the tension like it didn't exist. His steps were steady, unhurried, as if the three men circling him were nothing more than ghosts in the wind. His security team followed his lead, silent and focused, eyes forward. No one reached for a weapon. No one broke formation.
It was psychological warfare and it worked.
Vincent's men, though itching for action, hesitated. Their feet shifted uncertainly on the concrete. Their eyes flicked to one another, waiting for someone, anyone to throw the first punch. But no one moved. Because despite the numbers, despite the orders, no one wanted to be the fool who struck first against Ethan Sinclair.
Ethan reached the SUV, opened the door himself, and paused just long enough to glance back once. His eyes found Vincent's. No words. No threats. Just a cold, controlled silence that said more than any outburst ever could.
Then he got in. The door shut with a heavy click.
And just like that, the convoy pulled away leaving Vincent standing alone in the silence he tried to create.
And the reporters? They would arrive too late to catch the fight.