The Billionaire's Dangerous Redemption (by Claire Winters) novel Chapter 112

112 The Sinclair Seal of Approval

Hazel’s POV

I leaned against the balcony railing, letting the cool night air wash over me. The weight that had been pressing on my chest for weeks felt lighter now. Sebastian’s revelation explained so much-the mysterious protection, the sudden appearances, the

unwavering support.

“There you are!” a cheerful voice called from behind me.

I turned to see Cora Cadwell approaching with a tray laden with food and wine. Her designer heels clicked confidently across the stone terrace.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she said, setting the tray on the small table nearby. “The canapés downstairs are divine, but hardly filling.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness. “That’s very kind.”

Cora waved dismissively as she poured two glasses of red wine. “It’s nothing. Besides, I’ve been wanting to talk to you properly.”

She handed me a glass and clinked hers against it with a mischievous smile. “To new friends who are actually old friends.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “So you knew too? About the river incident?”

“Of course I knew.” Cora’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Sebastian wouldn’t stop talking about the brave girl who saved him after it happened. It became family legend.”

“And yet you pretended to be a stranger when we met,” I pointed out, taking a small sip

of the excellent wine.

“Says the woman who saved my brother’s life and never mentioned it,” Cora countered, spreading soft cheese on a cracker. “We’re even.”

I accepted the cracker she offered me. “Fair point.”

“Sebastian was furious when he found out I’d been helping you without telling him,” Cora said, helping herself to the assortment of cheeses and fruits. “But I told him what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

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“Is he always so…”

“Protective?” Cora supplied. “Intense? Brooding? Yes, yes, and definitely yes.”

I smiled despite myself. “I was going to say private.”

“That too.” Cora sighed dramatically. “Getting information out of Sebastian is like trying to open a safe underwater. With mittens on.”

We both laughed, and I felt a genuine ease with her that I hadn’t experienced with many people.

“Speaking of my frustrating brother,” Cora said, refilling our glasses, “you need to do something about his work habits.”

I nearly choked on my wine. “Me? What could I possibly do?”

“Manage him,” she said simply. “He works too hard. Last week, I had to take him to the hospital because he collapsed.”

My heart stuttered. “Hospital? Is he okay?”

Cora’s expression softened at my obvious concern. “It was just a stress-induced nosebleed. Doctor said his blood pressure was through the roof from overwork.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, genuinely worried. “But I don’t see how I could help. He barely

listens to me.”

Cora snorted. “Are we talking about the same Sebastian Sinclair? The man who rearranged his entire schedule because you mentioned wanting to see that art

exhibition last month?”

Heat crept into my cheeks. “That was different. He was just being polite.”

“Hazel,” Cora said, fixing me with a knowing look, “Sebastian doesn’t do ‘just polite.’ He’s efficient with his time and attention. If he gives either to you, it means

something.”

I busied myself with a grape, unsure how to respond. The implication behind her words was both thrilling and terrifying.

“Anyway,” Cora continued, mercifully changing the subject, “now that we’re officially friends, you have to design something for me. Something unique. Not off the rack.”

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“I’d be happy to,” I said, relieved by the shift in conversation. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

Cora’s eyes lit up. “I have this charity gala next month. Everyone wears such boring black dresses. I want something that’ll make heads turn.”

“Bold colors? Unusual silhouette?”

“Both,” Cora declared. “I trust you completely. Make me look fabulous.”

We spent the next twenty minutes discussing designs, fabrics, and the latest fashion trends. Cora was knowledgeable and passionate, making it easy to forget she was the daughter of one of the nation’s most influential families.

When we’d finished most of the food, I glanced at my watch. “We should probably head back downstairs. Your mother will think I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Mother loves you already,” Cora said confidently, standing and smoothing her dress. “She told me so earlier. Said you have ‘substance. That’s high praise from Eleanor Sinclair.”

We made our way back to the party, arm in arm like old friends. The grand ballroom was still filled with guests, though the crowd had thinned slightly as the evening progressed.

As we descended the staircase, I noticed something strange. The same women who had been eyeing me with barely concealed disdain earlier were now smiling warmly in my direction. One even waved.

I leaned closer to Cora. “Is it my imagination, or has everyone suddenly developed amnesia?”

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