Chapter 1 The Will

Ares Sinclair stood at the open window of the mahogany-panelled study, his thoughts drifting through an ocean of memories. The garden below stretched out, vivid with colours and scents so soft, smelt the sweet fragrance of roses that had burst into bloom, their petals dancing to the slightest of wind caresses. Chirping birds and buzzing bees completed a symphony of nature to the scene. Ares had known these gardens to be the pride and joy of Leonards, given the amount of work and care that went into making this beautiful oasis.

Memories of his father's last breath, while clutching his hand, flashed; pancreatic cancer had been brutal on both of them, his father refusing to accept his own death. Leonard Sinclair had forever cast a shadow over his life, always menacing, impossible to brush aside. Now, his dad was reduced to cold, legal language in some will.

An icy chill crawled up his spine, as if some ghostly presence from beyond the grave was reaching out to him, trying to curl his lifeless fingers around Ares once again—around him.

"Ares, are you ready?" Mr. Hargrove asked, his voice soft but firm, the tone used when being led through a hard task.

He dragged his gaze from the gardens and settled deep into the high-backed leather chair, taking a deep breath. He glanced up at the picture of his father: Leonard Sinclair, a movie star, handsome, viper-charming. Sharp features could draw you in, but lying beneath that seductive exterior was a cold, calculating predator waiting for the right moment to strike. The only thing he got from him physically were his sharp and expressive eyes, except his held a mixture of vulnerability and strength, reflecting the inner conflicts he's battled. His jawline was strong and defined, hinting at a past marked by determination and resilience.

Mr. Hargrove, his father's lawyer of nearly forty years coughed and opened a large, bound portfolio of leather. "We are gathered here to read Leonard Sinclair's Last Will and Testament," Mr. Hargrove announced, coughing lightly and opening a bulky, leather-wrapped folder. You know, Mr. Sinclair was a man of considerable means, and his death had much consequence regarding the dispensation of his estate and family.

A lump formed in his windpipe. The word ‘family' sounded hollow. Leo distanced Ares from his mother and other extended relatives when growing up, leaving him isolated and restrained. Private nannies and tutors had filled his life. Leo had to schedule parent time in advance. Expectations and disappointments were an ongoing theme in their strained relationship. Leo had expectations that Ares continually failed at. Mr. Hargrove looked toward him and picked up his reading from the will again.

"To my son, Ares Sinclair, I leave the whole of my estate, valued at approximately two and half billion, under the following conditions."

He leaned forward, his heart pulsing like a war drum in his ears, like the undercurrent of a power struggle, where every beat brought the storm closer.

"What does he mean, conditions?"

Mr. Hargrove turned to face him then, displeased, his voice shaking.

"The appointed authorities of the Testator will subject Ares to conversion therapy, and they will determine the time frame. Upon successful completion of said conversion therapy program, Ares may receive half of the two and a half billion dollars from the estate of the Testator."

His mind was a tornado, whipping any sense into a swirling storm of confusion and chaos. Ares could feel his heart race to pound against his chest as if to break free. His forehead was sweating, his palms clammy with the intensity of his emotions. The room seemed to spin around him, blurring into a blind whirling haze as his mind tried to keep pace with this whirlwind of thoughts and feelings. It was like being a leaf in the most violent hurricane that ever swept the face of the earth, quite disorienting and unsteady.

The ultimate betrayal was a demand from beyond the grave. There had been some deep-seated resentment toward Ares's sexual orientation, but the stipulations against him showed how much Leonard actually detested his homosexuality. Every word his father had spoken cut like a knife, reminiscent of their complicated relationship. Though he could do nothing, he could only laugh quietly, left in awe by Leonard poetic yet chilling nature, as this was to be the last act of domination.

Despite knowing the consequences, he couldn't resist baiting him by openly showcasing his relationships with other men. Leonard would only jerk up his blond eyebrow and set him with a scornful stare, never voicing his disapproval. Ares struggled to decide which had cut deeper: his father's icy indifference in public or the burning criticism privately.

Memories flared up in his mind like a burning flame, rekindling anger and sorrow for himself, reminding him of how much hate and rejection he had from people for being true to himself. A weight settled onto his chest as Ares sat within the bounds of a throne to the rule of his sperm donor. His hands clutched into fists tightly, with the white skin at his knuckles standing against the backdrop of the deep leather on the chair. Simmering anger and deep sorrow swelled from the very atmosphere of the space, weighed by his father's overbearing presence.

Mr. Hargrove paused long enough for the shock to set in on Ares.

"After completing the conversion therapy program, Ares shall enter a marriage contract with a female partner chosen by the Testator. Ares shall, within a time frame dictated by the wishes of the Testator, fulfill the obligation of providing a biological heir to the Testator's bloodline. After Ares has relieved this obligation from him. The Testator's estate shall endow him with the other half of the seven hundred million dollars. Furthermore, Ares shall sign an employment agreement as specified by the instructions of the Testator."

Ares sprang to his feet, scraping the chair backward along the floor. "This is fucking insane! Leo was crazy! He can't do this to me! He's fucking dead! "

Mr. Hargrove regarded him with near-pity and professionalism. "Ares, please sit down. I understand this is very hard, but your father's will is iron-tight. You stand to be disinherited if you don't follow through on all the conditions. And at this moment, as per your father's wishes, we are to freeze all your bank accounts, cards, and assets."

Nausea hit him as his eyes crashed shut, locking out the nightmare unfolding before him.

His father's—iron grip—control. Yet this. This was a betrayal beyond anything Ares could ever have imagined. Anger and desperation churned within him, gasping for breath, entrapped within the tightening noose of his father's last command. The money would be his ticket to freedom, how he would finally step out from under Leonard Sinclair's, his father's smothering shadow. Money that now seemed more like a chain, binding him into the life he could never want or need.

"I can't believe he'd do this to me," Ares groaned, dropping back onto the chair. A deep, aching sadness replaced his anger.

Closing the folder and setting it aside, Hargrove met his gaze. He exhaled, adjusting his rimmed wired glasses, "Ares, I am here to help you get through this. We can pursue other means, but they will be very time-consuming and involve a lot of legal red tape. Decide now which way to go. These directives are immediate in their effect."

Ares sat in smothering, heavy silence, his mind racing fast with incredulity and fear. Both requirements repulsed him: conversion therapy or that hollow shell of marriage. Every thought found its way deep into his consciousness, like ice daggers burrowing into the flesh of his mind. The suggestion alone made him feel ill, the alternative of losing his inheritance aimless. His father's fortune had always given him a sense of security.

"I need some air," Ares growled.

The tight, drowning study walls closed rapidly, pressing against him like a vice. The stale essence of old books filled the air while the muted sound of pages turned rung in his ears. He desperately needed to break free from what had become extremely claustrophobic and take some time to clear his mind.

Mr. Hargrove nodded gravely, his eyes leaden with subdued sympathy. "Take your time, Ares. We shall wait until you can go on. But, if you please, don't leave the study."

The tsunami of blood in his ears doused out Hargrove's words as he quickened his pace. His father's ways of caring were not merely verbal and behavioural but had tangible, physical effects on him. Every time Ares interacted with Leonard, it was as though he was being ensnared in a complex emotional web, deliberately woven with threads of manipulation and control.

It was as if he had already positioned the chess pieces, strategically planning his moves in advance. Ares constantly walked on eggshells, always in a terrible state of anxiety, ready to get frightened at one word or deed that might offend his father. Leo continually watched his every move, judged his decisions, and destroyed Ares's autonomy. He is caught in an unending cycle of validation-seeking from his father, often costing him his happiness and well-being.

"Mr. Sinclair, I really must insist—please, you cannot leave the study, sir!" Hargrove's urgent voice cracked, but Ares brushed it aside.

In his footsteps lay the weight of his father's ultimatum. His mind churned over, whirlwind-like, with thoughts that turned and tumbled, strangely useless to any sort of focus because of their turbulence in every second that passed. He needed an escape, just a moment of silence, to reclaim sanity. His legs carried him away from the chaos, instinctively seeking solace within nature's lonely confines. With a definite, purposeful stride, he started toward the garage and reached quickly for his keys on the entryway table.

"Ares, you can't take the car! It's no longer yours, sir!" Hargrove sputtered, shuffling after him. His little legs worked like a mad maniac, every word he issued in panicked gasps.

His father's gift, given to him on his twenty-first birthday five years ago, was the last polite memory between them. The sleek black sports car sat waiting. Ares slid behind the wheel into the leather seat, familiarly cold. He looked in the mirror, his blond curls falling in soft, tousled waves that framed his face, giving him a somewhat rugged yet refined appearance. He had stopped getting a haircut to spite his Mr. Sinclair. With a turn of the ignition, it roared to life, its purring engine a balm to the chaos that was his life for a moment.

He drove aimlessly the rain-slick streets blurring past him. His mind replayed Mr. Hargrove's words like a mantra, and with each replay, the fire of his anger and despair only flared higher. How could his father find this acceptable? How dare he assume the right to run Ares's life, even in death?

Ares drove until the city lights gave way to the dark, winding roads of the California countryside.

The mountains, towering at their peaks, summoned him with snow-capped summits that shone under the sun's fading rays. The soft breeze whispered secrets in his ears as he inhaled the crisp, sharp scent of pine. Anticipation washed over him, tingling his skin with a yearning to discover the untamed beauty before him. Maybe this is where he needs to be; maybe this is something urgent at the center of him, an inner knowing that he needs to disappear. It was as if the mountains were calling out to him, their allure too powerful to resist. The road stretched out before him and transformed into an unfamiliar landscape.

Emotionally drained, he didn't realize he had been speeding, taking turns without caution along the looping roads. The metallic tang of electricity weighed heavy in the air with the smell of wet earth. A faint ghostly light tinged the black sky, haunted by the passing energy that had cut across it only moments before.

The elk crossed in front of his path; its bright eye shine brought him back to his senses. He yanked hard to miss it; the car slid on the slick pavement. Briefly, his world spun wildly out of control in terror. The car careened off the road, crashing through the underbrush as the branches cut into him through windows and windshields. He laughed as the car slid faster down the mountain before bringing it to a stop against a tree with a jarring force, but the airbags failed to go off as Ares's head slammed into the steering wheel, and pain exploded through his skull.

Stunned and bleeding, shaking hands reached for the seatbelt. Unbuckling himself, he pushed open the door and tumbled into the rain. The cold was like a crack on his face, shocking him back into wakefulness.

Pain detonated all over his body as he could not start shaking. Smoke billowed out of the contorted wreckage, issuing the acrid smell of burning rubber into the air. That shiny, expert exterior was now a crushed and mangled mess, the stuff of a stark nightmare. Sitting amidst that wreckage, disbelief and devastation were tangible. All that surrounded him was an endless expanse of darkness, accompanied by the haunting howls of the wind and the biting chill that permeated the air.

It didn't matter. He had no wallet or cell with him; hence, he was all but cut off from anything outside. "Fuck," he screamed out, scrambling for a way out, but he found himself high at an elevation, completely ignorant of just how precarious his situation was. Suddenly, a crackling discharge of static electricity streaked across the otherwise darkened sky, casting an otherworldly light upon him. He stumbled at his first strides, his senses momentarily overwhelmed by the electrifying sensation.

Each breath burned, and the soggy mountain mud provided no purchase for his Italian oxfords. Every step became a fight as he forged on, his abused body cast over the treacherous ground. Rocks, uneven and pointed, and the rough ground ripped at his sturdy, worn-in leather jacket and his dark jeans, the cold, cutting wind whipping all around him. Blood from the gashes on his face and hands mixed into rain that stung chillingly, only raising his realization of the racking pain.

His head throbbed from the crash—a pulse with every heartbeat, reminding him of the impact that almost killed him. Moonless blackness wrapped up the mountain, and he stumbled, blind, into the remote country. With no light, every shadow could be a threat—with every sound, a warning for dangers unseen in backcountry depths. The air was thin at six thousand feet, so breathing became a problem. His lungs burned with each effort his straining muscles made to pull in enough oxygen. The icy rain soaked him to the bone, chilling him inside out.

The incessant storm soaked the earth and turned it into a muddy quicksand that threatened to pull him under with each step he took. He didn't know where he was going, but the urge to keep moving was overwhelming. It was the cold, his injuries, and despair's claws in his mind that he could ill afford to stop. More than simple reminders, the physical drain and the mental wreckage kept him in the ruthless reality of things. Yet, it was also an incentive that heightened his resolve—now that the mountain was digging his grave, he could not afford to give up. The darkness grew more confident with each step as if the night was against him.

With every gust of wind that howled through its passage, doubt appeared to gain strength—fanned by the weather. Feeling he had wandered through an unusually long period, he chanced upon a thin path that brought him toward a picture-perfect cabin. Muted light bled from within and murmured sweet nothings of solace and haven. Relentless rain pelted against his trembling, injured form, making him cold. At each step, the ground squelched in rhythm with his worn-out Italian leathers. His body lurched violently as he approached the weathered pine door, his hand shaking with overwhelming fatigue as his fist rapped against the door with resounding force. A ripple of hope welled up inside him, renewing the soul that had grown weary.

"Can I help you?" Growled the man suspiciously, the door opening behind him. Safety beckoned to him with open arms, inviting him to seek shelter from the storm that raged within and without. Ares' overworked muscles tensed, ready to defend himself if needed, while his weary bones yearned for comfort beyond the threshold. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of trepidation and longing intertwining with each beat.

And so, with a hesitant nod, he mustered the strength to step forward, crossing the threshold into the unknown. He licked his lips. "I was in an accident! Can you help me?"

Guiding Ares into the cozy cabin, the man's stern face relaxed, replaced by a look of concern. The sounds of a crackling fireplace enveloped him, warmth embracing his chilled skin. His soft, soothing voice resounded across the small space, calming Ares instantly.

"Come in. Let me take care of those wounds for you. I'm Apollo."

The door closed behind him, shutting out the outside world and cocooning him in the embrace of safety. Ares collapsed onto the plush chair nearby, his body still raking with tremors from the overwhelming adrenaline rush. He exhaled forcefully, his eyes capturing the sight of the dimly illuminated room, drenched in a subtle ambiance from the gentle radiance of the lamp. The murmurs of rain drizzled softly from outside through the sealed windows—a rising and falling hum that would mix with the calmness of the moment. The aroma of lavender and the remaining scent of the coffee served earlier subtly filled the air. At long last, Ares glanced over at him. A truer smile formed.

"Well, Apollo, it's an actual pleasure. You got some whiskey round here?" As he licked the blood off his teeth. Even though he was in pain or maybe delirious he couldn't help bit admire the big man that was trying to get him whiskey. Older than Ares by ten years, Apollo had rugged good looks and kind blue eyes.

Apollo smiled. "I have some wine, but first, let me attend to your wounds. Try to radio this in and see what damage is out there. If I can call for help, arriving will take some time." His heavy feet jerked with every stride.

The tight tank top only set off his musculature, providing some lively sight to Apollo's arms and broad shoulders. Ares couldn't help himself as he leered at the Paul Bunyan-type Apollo. While parading in boxers, the view allowed less room for imagination, stirring Ares' curiosity yet again. The air was faintly sweet with sweat and the scent of masculinity.

"Don't be surprised if the road washes away." Apollo called out, "We may be here for a while. It's a good thing I was a combat medic. I've got quite a few supplies to get you fixed up, so let's get you out of these wet clothes first."

Ares couldn't help but sneer at Apollo. "You say that to all men, of course." Apollo wrapped him in a fluffy towel, drying him off as he shivered violently. The towel was warm, instant relief. He laid his weary head on Apollo's shoulder, sinking into the man's strength. He could not move as safety and comfort drowned him in their allure. As Apollo fixed his bruises, Ares still couldn't shake a strange sense of relief. The very first flame of hope had appeared in his soul since he had heard the reading of his father's will. Probably, just probably, there was a way out of this chaos.