Chapter 3: Meeting Adrian Sinclair
I change outfits four times before I settle on a navy blue dress that hits just above the knee. Simple, elegant, professional. Nothing like the soft pastels and flowery patterns eighteen-year-old Elena supposedly wears.
I'm not that Elena anymore.
I study myself in the hotel mirror. My hair is pulled back in a low bun. Minimal makeup. Pearl earrings—the one piece of my mother's jewelry I managed to grab before I left.
I look older than eighteen. Good.
My phone says it's 1:45 PM. Fifteen minutes to get to Donovan's.
I grab my purse and head out.
Donovan's is exactly as I remember it. Dark wood, low lighting, the kind of place where deals worth millions get made over steak and whiskey. The host recognizes quality when he sees it—he takes one look at me and doesn't question whether I belong here.
"Reservation?" he asks.
"Sinclair. Two o'clock."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Of course. Mr. Sinclair is already here. Right this way."
He leads me through the main dining room to a private section at the back. There's a hallway with three doors, all closed. He stops at the middle one and opens it.
"Miss Hartwell," he announces, then steps aside.
I walk in.
And I forget how to breathe.
Adrian Sinclair is standing by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of what looks like whiskey. The afternoon light cuts across his face, sharp and golden.
I knew he was handsome. I was married to the man for two years. But I never really looked at him before—not like this.
He's twenty-two now, not thirty-four like when we finally got married. Younger. Sharper. His dark hair is slightly longer than he'll wear it later, falling just over his forehead. His face is all angles—strong jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that would make angels weep. He's tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders that fill out his black suit perfectly.
But it's his eyes that stop me.
Dark gray, almost black in this light. And they're locked on me with an intensity that makes my skin heat.
He doesn't smile. He just watches me as I walk in, those eyes tracking every movement.
"Elena Hartwell." His voice is deep, smooth, with just a hint of something sharp underneath. Not the cold, distant tone I remember from later. This is different. Warmer.
Dangerous.
"Adrian Sinclair." I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, still watching me. "You're early."
"So are you."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "I don't like being kept waiting."
"Neither do I."
Now he does smile, just slightly. He sets his glass down on the table and walks toward me. Three steps, four. He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Up close, he's devastating. The photos I've seen don't do him justice. There's a small scar above his left eyebrow that I never noticed before. A beauty mark at the corner of his jaw. His cologne is subtle—cedar and something darker, more complex.
"I'll be direct," he says. "Our grandfathers arranged this engagement before they passed. I was informed about it when I turned twenty-one last year. Were you aware?"
I force myself to focus. This is a negotiation. I need to be smart about this.
"I found out recently," I say. "My father kept it from me."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Why would he do that?"
"Because he wanted to match my stepsister with you instead."
Something flashes in his eyes. Anger? Interest? "Your stepsister."
"Vanessa. She's been very interested in your company lately."
"Hmm." He tilts his head, studying me. "She came to my office last week."
I knew this. I know this conversation. But I force surprise into my expression. "She did?"
"She said she wanted to warn me about you. Said you were unstable. Manipulative." He steps closer. We're inches apart now. "She said I should break the engagement arrangement before it was formalized."
My heart is pounding. "And what did you say?"
"I threw her out of my office." His voice drops lower. "I don't like liars, Elena. And everything she said about you contradicts the woman standing in front of me."
I can feel the heat radiating off his body. This close, I can see gold flecks in his dark eyes.
"How do you know she was lying?" I manage to ask.
"Because she tried to drug my drink. My assistant caught her."
The room tilts slightly. "What?"
"She crushed something into my whiskey when she thought I wasn't looking. Probably something to make me more... receptive to her suggestions." His jaw tightens. "Security escorted her out. I was going to file a report, but then your attorney called about the engagement contract."
Vanessa moved even faster than I thought. In the original timeline, she didn't approach Adrian until I was twenty. But something about my rebirth has accelerated everything.
"I'm sorry," I say. "She shouldn't have—"
"Don't apologize for her." He reaches up and, without warning, tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my cheek. "Tell me why you activated the contract now."
I can barely think with him touching me. This is not the Adrian I remember. That Adrian barely looked at me for the first five years of our engagement. He certainly never touched me casually.
"Because I'm taking control of my life," I say, echoing what I planned to say. "I'm done letting my family make decisions for me."
"I heard you were the accommodating type." His hand is still near my face, his thumb now tracing my jawline.
"You heard wrong."
He smiles. Actually smiles. It transforms his entire face, softening those sharp edges into something almost boyish. "I'm starting to see that."
Then he steps back, breaking the moment. I can breathe again.
He walks to the table and pulls out a chair. "Sit. We should discuss terms."
I sit. He takes the seat across from me, not at the head of the table. Close enough that our knees almost touch.
A waiter appears with menus. We order—I barely register what I ask for. The waiter disappears.
Adrian leans back in his chair, watching me. "I'll be direct. I'm not interested in a wife who needs taking care of. I don't have time for romance or hand-holding."
This. This is exactly what he said in my past life. Word for word.
"My company is my priority," he continues. "I'm building something that's going to change the industry. I need a partner who understands that."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He leans forward. "Because most women expect attention. Dates. Love letters. I can't give you that."
"I don't want that."
His eyes flash with something. Surprise? Interest? "No?"
"No. If we do this, it's a business arrangement. We maintain appearances, support each other's goals, and stay out of each other's way."
He's quiet for a moment, studying me. "What are your goals, Elena?"
"I'm going to Oxford in three months. Economics and business."
"Ambitious."
"I'm starting my own investment firm after graduation."
His eyebrows rise. "Are you now?"
"Is that a problem?"
"No." He leans back again, a slow smile spreading across his face. "It's refreshing. Most women I meet either want to spend my money or want me to fund their lifestyle. You want to build your own empire."
"I don't need your money. I have my own inheritance."
"The one your father's been stealing from."
I stiffen. "How did you—"
"I do my research." He swirls the whiskey in his glass. "When my attorney told me about the engagement contract, I looked into you. Elena Hartwell, eighteen years old, recently accepted to Oxford, trust fund being mismanaged by her father. Mother died when she was ten, left her a fortune. Father remarried two years later to Claire Montgomery, who brought a daughter from a previous marriage. Stepsister Vanessa, currently unemployed and spending money like water."
"You're thorough."
"I have to be." His eyes lock on mine. "I'm trusting you with my name, Elena. That means something to me."
"And I'm trusting you with mine."
"Fair enough." He sets down his glass and leans forward, elbows on the table. "So here's what I propose. We formalize the engagement. Public announcement in one week. Wedding after you graduate from Oxford—that's four years from now. We maintain separate residences until then. You'll have full access to your inheritance, and I won't interfere with your finances or your business plans."
This is almost exactly what happened before. Almost.
"And what do you get out of this?" I ask.
He smiles slowly. "A brilliant wife who won't bore me. Social stability—an engaged man is less of a target for unwanted attention. And an ally. You're smart, Elena. I can see it. You'll be useful."
"Useful." I raise an eyebrow. "How romantic."
"I told you I don't do romance."
"And I told you I don't want it."
We stare at each other across the table. The air between us feels charged, electric.
The waiter arrives with our food. We both lean back, letting him set down the plates. He refills Adrian's whiskey and pours me a glass of wine.
When he's gone, Adrian picks up his fork. "There's one thing we need to establish."
"What's that?"
"If we're doing this, we need to be convincing." He takes a bite of his steak, watching me. "The media will watch us. Your family will try to sabotage this. We need to present a united front."
"I can handle my family."
"Can you?" He sets down his fork and reaches across the table. His hand closes around my wrist, warm and strong. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like you've been fighting battles alone for a while."
My pulse jumps under his fingers. He has to feel it.
"I'm tougher than I look," I say.
"I don't doubt that." His thumb presses against my pulse point. "But even tough people need allies."
"Is that what you are? My ally?"
"I'm your fiancé." He lets go of my wrist and sits back. "Or I will be, once we finalize this. That means I protect what's mine."
Something hot coils in my stomach at those words. What's mine.
"I can protect myself," I say.
"I know. But it's easier with two." He picks up his fork again. "Eat. You barely touched your food."
I look down at my plate. He's right. I've been too focused on him to eat.
I force myself to take a bite. It's excellent—perfectly cooked, well-seasoned. I just can't taste it.
"Tell me about Oxford," Adrian says.
I look up. He's watching me again, those dark eyes missing nothing.
"What do you want to know?"
"Why economics and business?"
Because in my past life, I watched you build an empire and I want to understand how you did it. Because I need to be smart enough to build my own fortune. Because I refuse to ever be dependent on anyone again.
But I can't say that.
"Because I want to understand how money works," I say instead. "How markets move. How to spot opportunities before everyone else does."
"Insider trading?" He sounds amused.
"Smart investing."
He laughs. Actually laughs. It's a rich sound, deep and genuine. "I like you, Elena Hartwell."
"You don't know me."
"Not yet." He leans forward again. "But I will."
There's a promise in those words. Something that makes my skin tingle.
"Have we met before?" he asks suddenly.
My heart stops. "What?"
"You seem familiar somehow. Like I've seen you before."
"We haven't met." I keep my voice steady. "I would remember."
He's still staring at me, those gray eyes searching my face like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "Strange. I could swear..."
"Maybe I just have one of those faces," I say lightly.
"No." His voice is definite. "You don't."
The way he's looking at me makes me feel naked. Like he can see through every lie, every secret.
Can he somehow sense the rebirth? No. That's impossible.
"Tell me about your company," I say, desperate to change the subject.
He studies me for another moment, then lets it go. "We're developing software for financial systems. Banking, trading, security. It's niche right now, but it won't be."
"You sound confident."
"I am. In five years, every major bank in the country will be using our systems."
He's not exaggerating. I know he's right. In my past life, his company exploded. By the time I was twenty-five, he was one of the most powerful tech CEOs in the world.
"And you're doing this all at twenty-two," I say.
"Age is irrelevant. Either you can do something or you can't." He picks up his glass. "You're going to Oxford at eighteen. That doesn't make you less capable than someone who goes at twenty-five."
"Most people would say I'm too young to know what I want."
"Most people are idiots." He takes a sip of whiskey. "You know what you want, Elena. I can see it. The question is whether you're willing to fight for it."
"I am."
"Good." He sets down his glass and stands. "Come here."
I blink. "What?"
"Stand up. Come here."
Slowly, I stand. Adrian walks around the table until he's in front of me. Close. Too close.
"If we're doing this," he says quietly, "we need to sell it. That means public appearances. Photographs. Physical affection."
"I thought you didn't do romance."
"I don't. But I do business. And this is business." He reaches out and takes my hand, lifting it between us. His fingers are long, elegant, calloused at the tips from—what? Computer work? "Can you play the part of a woman in love, Elena?"
My breath catches. His thumb is tracing circles on my palm.
"Can you?" I counter.
He smiles. It's devastating. "I'll manage."
Then he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes never leave mine.
Heat floods through me. This is not business. This is—
"See?" he murmurs against my skin. "Convincing."
I yank my hand back. "You're a flirt."
"I'm effective." He's still smiling. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." He steps closer. One hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Flirting is imprecise. This—" his thumb traces my lower lip, "—this is strategy."
I can't breathe. Can't think. All I can feel is his hand on my face, his body close to mine, the heat in his eyes.
"You're trying to unbalance me," I manage to say.
"Is it working?"
"No."
"Liar." But he steps back, letting his hand drop. "We should go. I have a meeting at four."
I blink, trying to clear my head. "Right. Of course."
He walks to the door, then looks back at me. "One more thing. I'm hosting a business gala on Friday night. You'll be attending as my fiancée."
"That's three days from now."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. I just—won't people wonder why they haven't heard about an engagement?"
"They will on Friday. We'll announce it at the gala." He opens the door. "I'll send a car for you at seven. Wear something that makes a statement."
"What kind of statement?"
He looks me up and down, slow and deliberate. Heat follows his gaze.
"That you're mine."
Then he's gone, leaving me standing in the private dining room, my heart racing and my skin still tingling from his touch.
I sink back into my chair.
What the hell just happened?
That was not the Adrian Sinclair I remember. That man was cold, distant, barely interested. This Adrian is—
Intense. Focused. Magnetic.
He looked at me like I was the only thing in the room. Like he wanted to figure me out, take me apart, see how I work.
And that moment when he kissed my hand—
I press my fingers to my lips, trying to steady my breathing.
This is bad. This is very bad.
I can't afford to be distracted by him. This is a business arrangement. A strategic alliance. I need his protection and his future empire, not—whatever that was.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out.
A text from an unknown number: This is Adrian. In case you need to reach me.
Then another text: Also, you were right. You don't have one of those faces. You're unforgettable.
I stare at the message.
Then another one comes through: See you Friday, Elena.
I close my eyes and lean back in the chair.
Three days. I have three days to prepare for a gala where I'll be announced as Adrian Sinclair's fiancée.
Three days to prepare for my father's inevitable reaction.
Three days to figure out how to handle a man who looks at me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Reeves: Emancipation hearing scheduled for next week. Your father's attorney is fighting it, but we have a strong case. Also, the townhouse will be available by Monday.
Good. Things are moving.
Another buzz. This time from a number I recognize.
Vanessa: What did you say to him?
I smile.
She knows. She knows I met with Adrian.
I type back: Say to who?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Vanessa: Don't play dumb. Adrian's people called Dad today. They said the engagement is being formalized. What did you do?
I can picture her face. The shock. The rage. The disbelief.
In the original timeline, she spent years chasing Adrian. Years trying to get his attention. And it never worked.
Now I have him. And it took me one meeting.
I type: I honored the contract our families made. You know, the one Dad tried to hide from me.
Send.
Her response comes immediately: You bitch. You don't even want him. You're just doing this to hurt me.
I stare at the message.
She's right. I don't want him. I need him. There's a difference.
Except—
I remember the way he looked at me. The way his thumb traced my lip. The heat in his eyes.
I shake my head. No. That was strategy. He said so himself.
I type back: I'm doing this for me. Everything isn't about you, Vanessa.
I turn off my phone before she can respond.
Three days.
I stand up, smooth down my dress, and walk out of the restaurant.
I have work to do.