Frost and Smoke in Upper Manhattan, Early Morning

Winter had settled over the city like a silent decree. The first rays of sun were powerless against the bitter wind that knifed through the streets. Manhattan in December was brutal, a stone-and-glass tundra glazed in frost.

A row of black luxury sedans idled in front of the Regent Grand's main entrance. The lead car, a custom midnight-blue Bentley Flying Spur, waited with solemn stillness. Standing beside it was a tall, immaculately dressed man in a charcoal wool overcoat. His dark eyes—sharp and unyielding—remained fixed on the gilded hotel doors.

They opened.

Footsteps echoed, crisp and deliberate.

A cluster of aides and assistants emerged first, their breath fogging the air. Then came the man himself. His features were refined, sculpted—aristocratic without being cold. He wore no scarf or gloves, just a smoke-gray jacket over a black turtleneck. Even in the punishing chill, he exuded unshakable composure. The air around him bent slightly, as though it understood the rules of hierarchy.

Vincent Sinclair.

The name was spoken with both reverence and caution in Manhattan's elite circles. He was a titan in tailored threads

"Mr. Sinclair," murmured his assistant, Julian Hart, stepping forward with a slight bow as he opened the car door.

Vincent gave a brief nod, unbuttoned his jacket with one hand, and slid into the Bentley's rear seat. Julian rounded the front and slipped behind the wheel.

"Apologies, sir. I didn’t expect your grandfather to fly in this morning. I would have adjusted your schedule."

Vincent didn’t respond at first. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, fatigue tugging at his temples. Last night had been chaos. He hadn't truly slept, only drifted in fits, mind caught on a stranger's face and the way her voice cracked when she asked for a man who wasn’t him.

"Drive," he said simply.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes still shut.

His face, striking from every angle, had eyes that might have been too delicate on another man—almond-shaped, with an upturned outer edge—but within them lived precision, and something colder. A contradiction that made people pause.

"Shall we stop at the penthouse first?" Julian asked cautiously. "You’re still in yesterday’s suit."

Vincent glanced at his shirt, noting the creases. The image of tangled sheets and soft whimpers returned unbidden. His brow lifted ever so slightly.

"The girl," he said, more to himself than to Julian. "How did she end up there?"

Julian blinked. "Sir?"

"In the Empire Suite. There was a woman in my bed when I returned last night."

Silence.

"That wasn’t arranged by us. Maybe... someone from the Banbridge Group? They were hosting a charity gala downstairs."

Vincent waved a hand. "Forget it."

The memory flashed again. Her trembling, her insistence. The fire of humiliation in her eyes. She hadn’t been faking. And still, he had walked out.

He closed his eyes again.

"Go straight to my grandfather's townhouse."

He couldn't afford to think of anything else right now.