His Ghostwriter

The heart of Sienna Carter raced in her chest as she ventured beyond the velvet ropes surrounding the Sinclair Gala. She’d planned for this moment for weeks — researching and strategizing, convincing herself she belonged. But here she was, and a cold sweat pricked down her spine.

The grand entrance engulfed her, and for a split second she felt like an impostor. But no one questioned her. The security guards hardly looked her way, captivated by front-row guests in tuxes and ball gowns that followed behind her. She straightened up, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. If there was one lesson Sienna had learned from her years in journalism, it was that: Confidence is everything. If you walk in like you own the place, no one will question you.

The ballroom was a sight—a brilliant display of wealth and opulence. Crystal chandeliers glittered like diamonds overhead, their thousands of tiny sparkling jewels throwing golden light that ricocheted off polished marble floors. Champagne flutes dazzled in the hands of guests draped in designer gowns and men’s wear. The drone of conversation barely registered, but the peal of a string quartet, performing a soft, sinuous aria, cut through it all, making everything feel more … sophisticated, more privileged.

Sienna wasn’t meant to be here, not somewhere like this. But she wasn’t going to let that get in her way.

She squeezed the recorder that sat inside her clutch, the tool she had been carrying for every interview, every investigation. This was her moment — her opportunity to finally score the story of a lifetime.

But so far, her plan was falling apart before it even took shape.

She was here for one reason and one reason only: to get close to Damien Sinclair, the elusive billionaire CEO of Sinclair Enterprises, and bring to light the corrupt underbelly of his glamorous public persona. The corporate fraud. The backdoor deals. The tower of deceit — the tower of deceit. None had been able to break him — until now. Sienna had done her research, and she wanted to dig deep. But at the moment, Damien Sinclair was absent.

She surveyed the ballroom, eyes skimming over the politicians and celebrities and moguls who swanned through, swapping millions as if they were pocket change. The wealthiest and most influential appeared to float through the orbit of the space, aglow. Sienna, she felt small — nearly invisible — but that was all right. She preferred to be unseen. She was absorbed into the crowd, a ghost.

And then—

There he was.

Damien Sinclair.

He stood next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, his massive shoulders hugging the view of the New York skyline, as if he owned the whole city. Heroic, imposing, almost impossibly handsome. His Armani suit — dark, sharp and tailor-made — was the epitome of understated wealth. Sienna gulped, her eyes traveling down the planes of his jaw, the dark hair that was styled just so, each strand as though it had been put there on purpose.

But it wasn’t only his looks that captivated her. It was the aura around him. The cold, impermeable air of authority.

Damien Sinclair was the sort of man who saw the world in terms of dominance. He was deliberate in every move he made. Each step, a strategy executed to precision. His storm-gray gaze was focused on the city far below, seemingly unaffected by the opulence that surrounded him. He wasn’t here to mingle. He was here to control.

Sienna had observed him well enough to know that much.

Her heart raced with a feeling of excitement mixed with fear. This was her chance. She had to get closer.

A passing waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes, and she snatched one, attempting to calm her nerves. She had run this moment through her mind a thousand times over, but when it was finally here, reality was too much to bear.

Taking a breath she stepped forward —

And bowled straight through him.

The glass fell from her hand before she could even respond. The champagne—and its contents—splattered all over his pristine white shirt, soaking the material with what was left of the drink and, to make matters worse, coffee.

A hush descended upon the audience, the silence holding on for an awkward stretch.

Sienna froze. Her pulse skyrocketed. She couldn’t breathe. It felt like the world had frozen as she stood rooted in place, eyes wide as she looked up at the man who was now looking down at her, his face unreadable.

Damien Sinclair — unbothered, unfazed — surveyed his blotted shirt. A few droplets were clinging to his collar, but the stain was already blooming enthusiastically. The aroma of bitter, black coffee hung between them.

Silence enveloped the room like a ghost.

And then finally his eyes locked on hers.

"Well?" he asked, silkily, his tone as frigid as ice. “You have three seconds to explain.”

Sienna’s heart pounded in her chest. She parted her lips, but nothing emerged. She had only a few moments to decide what to do, and every option seemed like it would make things worse. Apologize? Step away and disappear before security ushered her out?

She locked gazes with him, and suddenly, everything she’d rehearsed, everything she’d trained for, dissolved.

No.

She wasn’t going to say sorry. Not yet. Not when this might be the very story she had worked toward for months.

Sienna raised her chin, meeting his stormy gaze with unexpected defiance. “You probably shouldn’t just freeze solid like a statue in a crowded ballroom,” she said, her voice steady, if her hands shook below the surface.

His eyebrows hiked, a dangerous flicker in his eyes. "Excuse me?"

Sienna’s breath caught in her throat, and she realized she was walking a fine line. She was playing with fire, but she couldn’t resist. “I obviously didn’t mean to pour coffee all over you. But accidents happen,” she said through a forced smile.

The words were coming out too quickly, too poorly. She didn’t know why she was still speaking. But she couldn’t stop.

There was a muscle in his jaw that tightened in a manner that revealed his annoyance. But even in the wake of the rising tension, Sienna couldn’t bring herself to shrink. If anything, she found him more interesting. There was something magnetic, something nearly magnetic about the way he carried himself — cold, calculating, untouchable.

He leaned closer, the weight of his presence pulling her in. “Would it make a difference if I said I’m sorry?” she asked.

Another long silence hung between them. For a long, protracted moment, he didn’t reply.

His eyes slitted, roving over her lips only for them to flick back up to her eyes. "Not even a little."

Sienna cringed at his chilliness. She had to get out of there. Now. (Back up, back up, the instinct to retreat jolting in her gut.)

But then, a hand gripped her wrist.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, low and commanding.

It was as if her body had responded before her brain caught up. The heat of his touch elicited an involuntary shiver up her spine, and she hated herself for how her skin burned, for how her pulse quickened. This wasn’t a time for weakness.

“Who are you?” he asked, his gray eyes narrowing in a narrowed calculation.

Sienna swallowed hard. Her mind raced. And here it was — it all depended on how she reacted now.

“I’m just a…” she paused, doubt momentarily flickering through her mind. Lying was no longer an option. "Sienna Carter."

Something unreadable flickered across his face. Was it recognition? Intrigue?

"I see." He released her wrist enough to allow her to breathe but still did not let go, still was not looking away, not done assessing, not done seeking. "The journalist."

Her stomach dropped.

Oh no.

He knew her.

Sienna forced a smile. "So you do read the press."

He smiled—not a real smile, a dry, humorless thing. “It’s my practice to keep an eye on people who like to look into things that don’t concern them.”

Sienna raised her chin, her confidence flooding back. “I am most terrified of the truth.”

Just before Damien could answer, a younger man — probably his assistant — interrupted them.

“The speech, Mr. Sinclair. Sir… It’s about to begin.”

Damien hissed, finally breaking eye contact with Sienna. He looked at the assistant, then back to Sienna, his eyes sharpening.

“This isn’t over,” he whispered, only for her.

And then he did an about-face, disappearing into the throng, leaving Sienna to digest everything that had just gone down.

Her fingers shook as she reached for her purse, still holding the recorder like it could anchor her.

This was bad. Very bad. She’d been cautious, deliberate. She had plotted her entrance with care, but now she was in too deep. Damien Sinclair knew who she was, and worse — he’d never forgot her.

He was not going to forget her anytime soon.

Sienna had already been pacing around her small apartment the next morning when the call had come. Since the gala, she had been running on pure adrenaline, replaying the confrontation with Damien Sinclair over and over in her mind.

“This isn’t over…”

His words reverberated through her head, his voice all smooth and cold like glass and tinged with an undertone of danger she couldn’t quite shake. How his gaze had lingered on her mouth, the brief spark of something more—something dangerous—lingering before he looked away.

She hadn’t known if she should feel nervous or empowered, but one thing was certain: Damien Sinclair wasn’t one to let anyone slip away unnoticed.’

Not that it mattered.

She didn't expect him to care for her — no one did. She was a freelancer, a low-level journalist with lofty aspirations and a mountain of deb