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."
"Let's not do this," she said, sipping her juice.
Their mother gave a delicate nod. "Your brothers mean well. They only want what's best for you."
"Yes, but what's 'best' always conveniently excludes anyone I'm actually interested in."
"Because you have a type," Grant said, eyes still on his tablet. "Flashy. Pretty. Useless."
Arabella placed her fork down with care. "He went to Wharton."
"And cheated his way through most of it," Hudson added. "Preston's not a partner. He's a pet project. You're bored and he's shiny."
She hated how accurate that sounded. She stared at Parker hoping he would say something being was her closest brother, but he seemed to agree with Hudson and Grant from the way he kept mute and typed on his phone.
But she didn't say anything. Instead, she turned her attention to her phone and sent a quick message to her best friends:
💬 *My brothers are staging an intervention over breakfast*
Within seconds, Ava replied:
💬 *Tell Hudson told mind his own business.*
Emily added:
💬 *And that you don't tell them who to date, or fuck or be their arm candy.*
Dorothy, ever direct:
💬 *Remind them you run New York city, lets meet later for drinks*
She smiled. Her girls always knew how to restore the balance.
"So," her mother said after a pause, "we've been invited to the Wintour fundraiser next weekend. The theme is modern aristocracy."
Arabella perked up. "Oh, I love that."
"I thought you would. I already told Anna Wintour you'd be attending."
"Mom," she groaned. "You didn't."
"I did. Besides she adores you and I know you love being at her events
"Of course i do and besides any reason to dress up"
"Well," her mother said, dabbing her lips. "You always do look fabulous."
Grant smirked. "If not particularly well-behaved."
"Rude," Arabella said. "I'm perfectly well-behaved. I just do it in designer."
They laughed, and she leaned back in her chair, letting the moment wash over her. This was her kingdom. These were her people.
No matter how calculating the world became, or how brutal the boardrooms turned, being a Sinclair came with its own unspoken code: loyalty, legacy, and never letting them see you sweat.
As breakfast wound down, Parker offered to drive her downtown.
"I have meetings," she said, standing. "And Emily and Dorothy want to do a little pre-gala recon."
"Recon?" Hudson asked.
"Try on couture," she translated.
He gave her a mock salute. "Go conquer."
She kissed their mother goodbye, kissed her father then hugged each of her brothers, and breezed out the door as if the city waited for her command.
And maybe it did.
Arabella Sinclair wasn't just the daughter of old money.
She was the future of it.