Chapter 337
Graham’s Point Of View
The black SUV didn’t just bounce down the private mountain road leading to the Sinclair Estate… it slammed, rattled, and groaned over the gravel like a tank tearing through a war zone.
Every pothole felt like a hammer striking my ribs. Wedged onto the floorboards of the back seat, I struggled against the thick plastic zip-ties binding my hands behind my back. My fingers had gone completely numb about ten miles ago, the circulation cut off so thoroughly I couldn’t feel whether they still moved when I flexed them.
My face pressed flat against the rough, dusty floor mat, and the smell of cheap air freshener mixed with dried mud filled my nose with every ragged breath. The blood from the stabs Jaxx had inflicted on my thighs had slowed to a thick, sticky ooze, gluing the fabric of my trousers directly to my skin. Each bump sent fresh waves of pain radiating through my legs, a reminder that my body had limits I’d never truly tested before today.
“Hey,” I croaked, my mouth full of dust and the metallic taste of my own split tongue. The words came out weak, pathetic… nothing like the commanding tone I’d used in boardrooms just days ago. “Hey… slow down. You’re… you’re tearing my stitches apart p>
From the front seat, Roman didn’t even glance at the rearview mirror. He adjusted the radio instead, letting a low, scratchy country song fill the cabin as he spun the steering wheel sharply to the left. The motion sent me sliding hard against the base of the passenger seat, my shoulder slamming into the metal frame. I bit back a scream, tasting blood.
“Shut up back there, Sinclair,” he said, his voice flat and disinterested, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Jaxx told me to deliver you alive. He didn’t say anything about making it a comfortable ride.” He paused, and I heard him take a drag from his cigarette. “You’re lucky I didn’t put you in the trunk with the spare tire p>
The casual cruelty in his tone made my blood boil despite the pain. This was a man who’d reduced me to cargo, who saw my suffering as merely incidental to his job. “You’re a dead man,” I wheezed as my forehead smacked against the plastic molding when the SUV hit another massive ridge. Stars burst across my vision, white and blinding. “My father… my father will have every dock worker on your payroll hunted down by nightfall. You don’t know who you’re dealing with p>
Even as the words left my mouth, I heard how hollow they sounded. Threats from a man bound and bleeding on a car floor carried little weight.
Roman let out a dry, hacking laugh that sounded like gravel shifting in a tin can. The sound grated against my nerves, mocking and dismissive, stripping away what little dignity I had left.
“Yeah, yeah,” he drawled, flicking ash out the cracked window. “I’ve been hearing that exact same speech from rich boys like you for fifteen years, Graham. It always sounds the same right before you start crying for your lawyers.” He paused, and I could hear the smirk in his voice, could picture it twisting his weathered face. “We’re here anyway. Try not to bleed on the leather on your way out p>
The SUV came to a violent, screeching halt, tires spitting loose gravel against the white stone pillars of my parents’ mansion. The familiar sight of home… the place I’d grown up believing was untouchable, a fortress of wealth and privilege, now loomed before me like a stage for my humiliation. Before I could even brace myself, the rear door was yanked open.
Roman grabbed me by the scruff of my ruined collar and the slack of my trousers, hauling me out of the footwell with a brutal, effortless heave. For a man his size, his strength was terrifying, speaking to a life spent in violence I’d only ever observed from a safe distance.
He tossed me roughly from the car. My shoulder hit the pristine stone driveway first, the impact stealing the breath from my lungs. I rolled twice, sharp gravel digging straight into my fresh thigh wounds, grinding dirt and debris into the raw flesh. A white-hot flash of agony made my vision go completely dark around the edges.
I let out a loud, pathetic yelp… the kind of sound I’d never made before in my life, the kind I’d heard from others and dismissed as weakness, and curled into a ball on the stones. The pain was so intense I thought I might vomit, my stomach heaving with the effort of containing it.
“Jesus Christ!” a voice barked from the porch, shock and horror mingling in equal measure.
The security men stationed near the fountains immediately rushed over, their polished shoes clicking frantically against the driveway. I could hear the panic in their movements, the confusion of trained professionals confronting a situation that had spiraled beyond their protocols. These were men paid to prevent exactly this scenario, now forced to witness their failure made flesh.
“Boss! Boss, what happened? Get him up p>
Two of the guards grabbed me under my armpits, hoisting me to my feet with urgent, almost frantic movements. My knees instantly buckled, unable to support my weight, the muscles in my legs screaming their protest. Blood rushed down my legs, warm and sticky, soaking through what remained of my expensive trousers. I groaned, the sound escaping without my permission. My head hung low, too heavy to lift, as if shame itself had added physical weight to my skull. The world spun in sickening circles, reality tilting on an axis I couldn’t control.
Then, the massive oak front doors of the estate flew open with a bang that echoed across the courtyard, announcing the arrival of the two people I least wanted to see me like this.
My father stepped out onto the marble porch. His silk robe billowed behind him like a cape, his face twisted into a furious, dark scowl that I’d seen intimidate CEOs and politicians alike. That expression had built empires and crushed competitors.
Right behind him came my mother, her diamond rings catching the afternoon sun as she hurried out, her face already creased with worry. Even in crisis, she moved with the practiced grace of someone who’d spent decades in the public eye, though her composure was already beginning to crack.
“What is all this noise about?!” my father shouted, his booming corporate voice echoing across the courtyard, commanding attention as it always had. That voice had commanded boardrooms, silenced rivals, built an empire from shrewd deals and ruthless decisions. “Who is tearing up the driveway at this hour p>
Then they saw me. They saw the state I was in… their son, their heir, reduced to a bleeding wreck on their pristine driveway.
Time seemed to freeze for a heartbeat. I watched my mother’s face transform from irritation to absolute horror in the span of a second, her carefully maintained mask of social propriety shattering like fine china.
My mother let out a sharp, horrifying scream that pierced right through the quiet afternoon air, her hands flying to her mouth. The sound was primal, maternal, filled with a terror I’d never heard from her before… not in all my years of disappointing her, of failing to live up to the Sinclair name. This was different. This was the cry of a woman seeing her child broken.
“Oh my god! My son! Sebastian, look at him!” Her voice cracked, breaking on my name like waves against rocks. “What happened to my son?! Who did this to you, Graham p>
She scrambled down the marble steps, her high heels clicking wildly, nearly tripping in her haste. The elegant woman who’d taught me proper posture and table manners had vanished, replaced by someone raw and desperate. When she reached me, her hands hovered over my bloody shirt as if she was afraid she’d break me if she touched me, as if I were made of glass instead of flesh and bone. Her perfectly manicured fingers trembled in the air between us, wanting to help but paralyzed by fear.
“Look at your face! You’re covered in blood!” Tears were already streaming down her cheeks, cutting tracks through her makeup, revealing the age she worked so hard to conceal. “Who did this p>
I wanted to comfort her, to tell her I’d be fine, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat felt sealed shut with pain and humiliation.
Then, her eyes darted past my shoulder, locking onto the black SUV idling in front of the house. Roman leaned against the driver’s side door, his arms folded across his leather jacket, completely unbothered by the chaos unfolding before him. He looked like he was watching a mildly interesting television show, his expression one of detached amusement. The cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling lazily upward.
As soon as she saw his face, her eyes widened into circles of pure, unadulterated venom. The grief on her face transformed into something darker, more dangerous… the kind of hatred that spoke to old wounds, to history I didn’t fully understand.
“It’s you,” she hissed, her voice shaking with a deep, ancient hatred that seemed to come from somewhere primal, from a place beyond reason. “Of course. It’s that bastard’s dog p>