Revenge of the Billionaire heiress

Arabella Sinclair had never stood in a line, never waited her turn, and never, not once in her twenty-five years, heard the word "no" without it being followed by a lavish compromise. She wasn't just born into money she was sculpted from it, dressed in legacy, and raised beneath a chandeliered ceiling that had seen more political deals and secret power plays than Congress.

The Sinclair townhouse on Fifth Avenue was less a home and more a monument. Six floors of gold trim, black marble, and understated excess, staffed by people who knew to look busy when the Sinclairs walked by. And on the top floor, in a bedroom, the size of most New York apartments, Arabella stood before a full-length mirror, assessing the effect of a pair of her diamond studs.

They were a gift from her father for graduating summa cum laude from Yale. She had considered asking for a new Aston Martin but thought better of it because her garage was getting full.

She slipped the earrings on and turned slightly, admiring the way they caught the morning light. Her dress was a cream Balmain number, cinched at the waist with gold buttons, and her heels were custom Louboutins with her initials etched in the sole.

"Princess," came a knock at her door, followed by the voice of her eldest brother, Hudson. "You ready?"

Arabella smirked. Hudson had never once called her by her actual name.

"Come in," she called.

He entered, tall and broad shouldered in a tailored navy suit, his tie already knotted with precision. He glanced her over with the practiced eye of a man who'd learned how to spot weakness in both boardrooms and battlefields.

"You're not seriously wearing those earrings to breakfast?"

"Why not?" she asked innocently.

Hudson sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "You're impossible."

"And you're boring," she replied sweetly, grabbing her clutch. "Shall we?"

They descended the stairs together, Hudson walking half a step behind her as though it was instinctual. Her brother though a pain in her ass had always been super protective of her. In the grand dining room, their mother sat at the head of the table in a silk robe, her fingers wrapped around a china teacup. She had the grace of Grace Kelly and the spine of a general.

Grant and Parker were already seated. Grant, the second-born, was scrolling through financial reports on his tablet while Parker, her third brother and most chaotic, was texting with one hand and buttering toast with the other.

"Arabella," their mother said with a smile that never lost its polish. "You look lovely, darling."

"Thank you, Mother."

"Sit, sweetheart," Leonard her father said, pulling out a chair for her. "Chef made your favorite lobster eggs Benedict and fresh papaya juice."

"You're perfect daddy," she told him, kissing his cheek before sitting.

"We know," Grant said dryly. "We've heard it enough."

Arabella rolled her eyes but smiled as she unfolded her napkin.

This was how mornings began in the Sinclair household gently chaotic, deeply ritualized, and always on schedule.

"So," Hudson said, finally turning his attention to his siblings instead of his phone.

Saw the news online last week about your pet.

Arabella didn't look up from her plate. "Hudson."

"Are we all still pretending Preston Kingsley is worth Arabella's time?"

"No, I'm serious," he went on. "I know he's got a trust fund and a last name, but so does a goat I saw on Bloomberg the other day. Doesn't mean you should date him."

"He's not that bad," she said, though even she didn't sound convinced.

"Not that bad?" Grant scoffed. You could date anyone you want and instead, you're dating a guy whose biggest achievement is getting his driver to sneak him into The Mulberry after closing."