Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sinclair

I recline in my plush leather chair, eyes roaming over the Boston skyline from the penthouse suite of McFolley Capital. The office is a fortress of polished wood and shimmering chrome, every square inch screaming of conquests and capitalism. As I'm admiring the view, my phone buzzes—a not-so-gentle reminder of the call I've been dreading. It's Clara.

Clara, the woman I married at twenty-three because it seemed like the next step to take on my journey to the top of the corporate world. Though, I divorced her at twenty-eight because she couldn't be attached to the Tin Man for the rest of her natural life.

I'm not exactly sure what she expected from me. I gave her everything she needed, even the fucking divorce when she asked for it. And per our prenuptial agreement, I will have to pay her alimony until she turns fifty or gets married—whatever happens first.

She insists that she's met the love of her life and she'd rather renounce the monthly fifty thousand dollars I give her and the house in Beacon Hill than live without him.

I don't understand how she's willing to give it all up—the alimony, the house, the status—for "love." I snort in disgust. What value does love have in the real world? You can't pay bills with love, can't leverage it to secure business deals or investments.

Love is impractical, a fool's errand.

I can't understand her logic. The man is a teacher in some public high school and makes almost nothing. I told her to think about her choices before she ruined her life.

Maybe, just maybe, she'll come to her senses and call it off.

But deep down, I know that's wishful thinking. My ex-wife is stubborn and determined, and she's about to make a huge mistake. I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on at the mere thought of her impending nuptials .

I take a deep breath and tap the screen of my phone, preparing myself for the conversation ahead. "Hello, Clara."

"Sinclair." Her voice comes through the speaker, calm and collected like a seasoned news anchor. "I wanted to go over the logistics for next week with you. You know, with the wedding and everything . . ."

"Logistics?" I scoff, my disbelief evident in my raised eyebrows. I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair as I try to process her words. "You're actually going through with this?"

There's a brief pause on the other end of the line, and I can almost picture her standing tall and proud, ready to defend her decision. "Yes, Sinclair. I am. And I would appreciate it if you could be supportive or at least not openly hostile."

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head even though she can't see me. "Supportive? You want me to support you throwing your life away for some guy who can barely afford to buy you a decent ring?"

"Listen, I'm going through with it," Clara says, her voice filled with a determined edge. "It's hard for you to understand why I'm giving up everything you offered, but I'm in love and I need to officially give you back the house." She pauses, and I can hear her take a deep breath. "Plus sign your documents, but I don't have time to go to your lawyer and mine charges too much by the hour for something I think we can do amicably as adults."

"Yeah, but . . ." I start, my words trailing as I search for the right tone. It's not that I still love her, but the whole ‘her getting married' thing has stirred up more than I'd like to admit. "You're really going through with this, huh? What if it ends up in divorce? This time it'll be you having to pay alimony and . . . it's not logical, Clara."

There's a brief pause, a crackle of tension over the line. "Yes, Sinclair, I am. He's giving me what I know I want and so desperately need: love, a family—happiness for the rest of my life."

I can't help but scoff at her idealistic vision of the future. "And he makes you happy?" The question comes out heavier than a lead balloon, weighed down by the unspoken implications of our own failed marriage.

"He does," she confirms, her voice both firm and soft. "He really does, Sinclair. And I hope you find that too. Love, happiness and a true reason to exist. Your father's approval isn't what life is all about."

I snort, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of my vast office. All the while juggling a billion-dollar fund and pleasing the old man? I shake my head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I'm okay with my life, Clara. People depend on me. I just can't stop listening to my father just because my wife thinks that's not healthy."

"Ex-wife, Sinclair. We've been divorced for almost eight years, but I'm sure you haven't noticed that just yet because you're too busy dealing with your father and his wishes." I can practically hear her eyes roll through the phone. "And I'm not trying to change you anymore. Been there, done that and moved on from the hellhole we lived together. I just want you to be happy, even if it's not with me. "

I feel a pang of guilt in my chest, knowing that she's right. Dad, my family, and the amount of hours I spent in the office were always part of the problem between us. She wanted more of my attention. Vacations together. I paid for her to travel around the fucking world, wasn't that enough? I run a hand through my hair, frustration mounting.

My mouth is dry as I struggle to find the right words, the bitter taste of regret and missed opportunities. Yet, I don't even know what I missed. Most of all, I feel like I failed at life because no one told me the rules of marriage. It's not like I'm the only one of my family who's divorced. Barnaby has been divorced twice. Raffa, Paul, Louanne . . . fuck we all failed at this whole love thing, except for the youngest McFolley.

McKay always lived by her own rules and defied our father. Even when he disowned her, she did what she wanted and I heard she's happy with her fiancé. Now even Paul and Lou are living in the same small town. And Lou found love too. Maybe all the failed relationships aren't a family curse but something else I've yet to discover.

"That's just it. You always have a choice, Sinclair. You chose this life, the late-night mergers, the dinner deals, boardrooms over birthdays," Clara brings me back from my own thoughts, her words slicing through my defenses. "Our marriage failed because you wanted—still want—to show the world that you're daddy's perfect son. Maybe you should learn to live for yourself—do something for you."

Honestly, I'm not sure how to reply. Was it a choice? I never had a chance to make decisions. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my desk as I try to gather my thoughts.

"I've lived," I say weakly.

"For what, Sinclair? Approval from your father? From the board?" Clara's voice grows tender. "I had to leave when I realized that I couldn't compete against any of them, I just gave up. What's the point of being with a person who only wants you because you look the part? And maybe it's time you ask yourself that about those around you. Does your father really care about you? I mean, look what happened to your sisters Lou and McKay. He disowned them for not following his wishes."

I feel a lump forming in my throat, the weight of her words settling heavily on my shoulders.

"Exactly, is that what you want him to do to me?" I tighten my grip on the phone, my other hand relaxing from its earlier fist. And maybe I don't even know what I'm missing, but I can't tell her that because that would be acknowledging that I never loved her the way she deserved—or at all. I swallow hard, pushing down the unwanted emotions.

"You have everything you ever wanted, Sinclair," Clara states slowly, "except maybe what you truly need."

I peer out at the city again, trying to figure out if I should hang up or continue this nonsense. "And what's that, Clara?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

There's a pause, and for a moment, I think she might not answer. But then, her voice comes through the line, soft and full of an emotion I can't quite place. "Love, Sinclair. Real, unconditional love. The kind that makes you want to be a better person, not just for them, but for yourself."

Her sigh fills the phone line, echoing a decade of insight. "To figure that out, you might have to start by letting go of what you think you need to be."

The line grows quiet, the silence stretching a moment too long. "I hope you find it, Sinclair. I truly do. Because . . . it's time to move forward, meaning no more contact and . . . it's time for us to close this chapter and say goodbye."

I nod, even though she can't see me, my throat tightening with emotion. "I'll make sure my lawyer handles everything that needs to be signed," I say finally, my voice gruff. "In fact, you should keep the house. After all, you chose it and made it a home. If you don't want it, you can sell it and create some college fund for those kids you always wanted."

I know toward the end she was angry that we didn't have any children, but isn't this better? They didn't have to be a part of a broken home. Hopefully Sam will give her what she deserves.

"Thank you, Sinclair. For everything."

"I wish you nothing but happiness, Clara." I hang up the phone, letting it clatter slightly against the glass desk as I turn back to the Boston skyline, her words settling deep inside. The office suddenly feels colder, the city more distant. I'm left wondering how much of my life has been merely lived and how much merely spent.

I stand and stride to the window, pressing a hand against the glass. The city sprawls before me, a sea of glittering lights diffused by wisps of fog rolling in from the harbor. Down below, cars creep along jammed streets, tiny metal beetles scurrying home. Up here, I'm removed from it all, alone in my tower of glass and steel.

Maybe it's time to start looking further than what I can see, beyond the endless chase. But is there anything that can make Sinclair McFolley happy? I furrow my brow, the question weighing heavily on my mind.

I chuckle to myself, a low, ironic laugh. It's ridiculous. Sinclair McFolley, the man who could negotiate multimillion-dollar deals before breakfast, unsure of . . . well, pretty much everything else. I shake my head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

My phone rings again, the shrill tone cutting into my brooding thoughts like a knife through the artisanal cheeses my brother Paul is so fond of. Speak of the devil, it's him calling from his hippie commune in Vermont. Where people apparently retire in their 30s to live among trees and insufferably cheerful neighbors.

"Who the fuck does that?" I mutter under my breath, glaring at the phone vibrating across my desk. With a resigned sigh, I snatch it up and slide to answer.

"McFolley," I answer, even when I know it's my brother on the other side.

"Hey, Sin," Paul greets me, his voice echoing the chirpiness of someone who has never encountered rush hour traffic. "Got a minute? "

"I always have a minute for you, Paul. What's the latest? Cow tip over a lantern?" I joke, settling back into my chair, a smirk playing on my lips.

"We're organizing a summer camp here. I thought you might want to help out," he replies, a chuckle softening his voice.

"A summer camp? What do you need, luxury tents? A spreadsheet to track marshmallow stocks?" I tease, raising an eyebrow.

Paul's response catches me off guard. "Something like that. Maybe design a few things, help us plan . . . but mainly we need a swimming instructor." His tone turns more serious as he continues, "McKay and I thought, who better to do that than our almost Olympic star, Sinclair McFolley."

I sputter and nearly choke on my own saliva in disbelief. "A what?" I manage to croak out. Sitting up straight now, my free hand grips tightly onto the armrest of my chair. "Paul, I'm a businessman, not a lifeguard. I don't have time to teach kids how to doggy paddle."

The mere thought of spending my summer days in a swimsuit, shouting at children to stay afloat, sends shivers down my spine. I can already feel the sunburn and chlorine stinging my skin, and the exhaustion from wrangling kids all day.

"Come on, Sin. You were the star swimmer in high school. And it's not just about the swimming. It's about being a mentor, shaping these kids into better versions of themselves." Paul's voice is filled with a passion that I struggle to understand.

"Yeah, I was good enough at swimming. Before I traded in my goggles for suits and spent my days staring at financial reports." I glance out at the bustling city below. The idea seems ridiculous, but there's something strangely appealing about it. A glimmer of excitement ignites in my chest, a sense of possibility that I haven't felt in years.

"Don't sell yourself short. Besides, you'd love it here, Sin. It's peaceful, and who knows, maybe you'll even find something that feels more real than those boardroom battles you're so fond of," he adds with a hint of mischief in his voice. "I'm not asking you to give up your life. Just a couple of weeks—a month tops. You have enough PTO for that."

"Find something real? Like realizing I have a hidden talent for campfires and canoeing?" I chuckle lightly, the idea taking root in my mind. I can almost imagine myself there, surrounded by nature, teaching eager children how to conquer their fear of water and embracing the simplicity of life away from the chaos of the city.

"Exactly. And you might finally understand why McKay, Lou, and I decided to make this place a home. It's not about giving up what you've built, Sinclair. It's about adding something to it that you never knew was missing," Paul encourages, his voice radiating warmth and nostalgia for the close bond we once shared.

As the pressure builds again behind my eyes, I instinctively reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose. The headache is just beginning to take hold, and I can feel my patience wearing thin. "Paul, I appreciate your offer, but I simply cannot drop everything and become a camp counselor in Vermont. My company requires my complete attention."

But despite my protests, I can feel myself wavering. Maybe Paul is right. Perhaps a change of scenery is exactly what I need—a chance to reconnect with my siblings and the things that truly matter.

"Look, I'll think about it, okay?" I concede, sighing heavily. "But don't expect me to move there like you."

"That's all I ask, Brother," Paul replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Just give it some thought. And always remember, we're here for you."

I nod, even though he can't see me, a lump forming in my throat at the sincerity in his words. "Thanks, Paul. I'll let you know what I decide."

We exchange our goodbyes before ending the call, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the overwhelming possibilities before me. A summer in Vermont, teaching kids to swim and reconnecting with family—it's a striking contrast from the busy city life I've built for myself in Boston. But perhaps this unexpected opportunity could be exactly the change I need to find true happiness and fulfillment in life that Clara insists exists.