Kneel For The Sinclair Heiress

Over the long weekend, my boyfriend Jaxon Pierce's assistant, Kendra Nash, livestreamed her lavish beach party in the Hamptons on Instagram.

In the video, Jaxon was slowly, carefully rubbing sunscreen onto her back.

On his arm, the couple's tattoo I'd designed for us had been artfully altered to incorporate a 'K' for Kendra.

Just this morning, I had given him my latest design portfolio, hoping it would be the final push for him to take our relationship public.

He snatched the portfolio, then kicked the chair beside me, sending it crashing to the floor and taking my laptop with it.

His face was a mask of contempt, his voice dripping with ice. "Take a good look at yourself. You're a nobody. A classless orphan. And you've done nothing but try to ruin me!"

For the past five years, I had silently endured his bullshit excuse that an "office romance would tarnish his professional image." But now, standing there, I was struck by the sheer absurdity of it all.

In that moment, the illusion shattered. I texted my father.

"Dad, I lost. I'm ready to come home."

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1

As soon as I confirmed the tattoo in the livestream was an altered version of my design, I posted a message in our company's Slack channel.

"Wishing Mr. Pierce and Ms. Nash a wonderful time in the Hamptons, and all the best for your bright future together."

A few minutes later, Kendra explained that it was just a joke between friends.

Jaxon, who had been MIA all day, finally called.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? Posting shit like that in the company channel? What's wrong with you, attacking her like that? Why are you so damn jealous? Can't you go five minutes without needing all my attention?"

Before I could reply, Jaxon added contemptuously, "What are you good for besides causing trouble? Go crawl back into your corner."

Even though I had braced myself, his venomous words were like a thousand tiny needles piercing my heart.

It was disgusting. Bile rose in my throat.

I couldn't stop trembling at the thought that just this morning, I had been begging him to go public with our relationship.

"Forget it, Jaxy. It's my fault. I'll go talk to Scarlett and clear things up!"

"No! You're not going anywhere!" Jaxon snapped. Though his voice was furious, he couldn't hide the undercurrent of concern. "How are you going to get a ride this late?"

He turned his anger back to me. "You listen to me, Scarlett Sinclair. There’s a limit to this madness! You think I can't handle you?"

Before I could get a single word in, I heard Kendra's theatrical sobs on the other end.

"Jaxy, I don't care if I have to swim there, I'm coming over right now. You can't stop me. I won't let anyone spread rumors about you!" Kendra declared.

"Why are you bothering with that psycho? I’m firing her. Right now!" Jaxon replied. "Kendra, you just stay put and rest. As long as I'm director, no one gets to bully you."

With that, he hung up on me without a second thought.

Less than five seconds after the call ended, I texted him, "I'm done. We're over."

He didn't reply.

Not that I was surprised. Unless he needed something from me, he had me on mute.

More than two hours later, my bags were packed.

Everything in this Brooklyn apartment, from the modest coffee machine to the sprawling art wall in the living room, had been personally chosen and arranged by me.

I even had a surprise for him—a penthouse I'd been eyeing, ready to buy and sign over in his name.

Now, a wave of relief washed over me that I'd kept that secret.

Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from Kendra.

"Don't worry, Scarlett. Jaxy and I are innocent. I've always seen him as a big brother, maybe even a father figure. I've never had any inappropriate thoughts about him."

As if to prove her point, she sent two videos. The first showed Jaxon mixing her a cocktail by the pool. The second showed him carrying her, bridal-style, to her bedroom.

Before, I never would have dared to respond to such a blatant provocation. I was always the one to back down, to crawl back and beg for Jaxon's good graces.

Five years had drained me of the reckless, youthful passion that made me chase him in the first place.

Looking at it now, my silent endurance had been utterly pointless.

"Are you sick? Sending me this to piss me off? Or are you hoping I’ll blow up your phone so you can shove the vibrating thing somewhere fun for a cheap thrill?"

The typing indicator bubble popped up instantly.

I could just picture her shaking with rage. Then I deleted her number and blocked her without a second thought.

I didn't sleep a wink that night. I stayed up until dawn, then sent the text to my dad.

"Dad, I lost. I'm ready to come home."

Dad’s reply was just a single, beaming emoji, followed immediately by a call. "Sweetheart, are you sure? You're not pulling my leg, are you?"

"No, I'm not," I answered, my laugh laced with self-deprecation.

Dad laughed, a booming, joyous sound. "That's my girl! I'll have my lawyers buy out his pathetic little company and hand it to you on a silver platter. Anyone who bullies my daughter makes an enemy of the entire Sinclair family!"