Julian & Jamie

Julian Sinclair did not walk – he glided, with the posture of a prince and the arrogance of a boy who had been told since birth that the sun rose for him alone. His school shoes, polished to an almost vulgar shine, clicked against the stone path that curved like a ribbon toward the front gates of Belgrave Academy – London’s most prestigious institution for the wealthy and genetically gifted.

“Morning, Madam Bellamy,” he purred in a silky tone as he passed the groundskeeper’s wife, who had just finished scrubbing dew from the chapel steps. He offered his hand like a duke greeting a duchess. She hesitated, startled, then placed her wrinkled fingers in his. He kissed her knuckles with exaggerated grace, smiled – and the moment she turned away, he spun on his heel and spat on the grass.

“God, what is that scent? Eau de bleach and barley stew?” he muttered to his companions as they clustered behind him like perfume-soaked shadows. Hugo Worthington barked out a snort, nostrils flaring.

“She tried to give me a hug once,” Hugo said with genuine horror. “I nearly reported her to campus security.”

Julian smiled, cold and clean. “Next time, we call pest control.”

They all laughed – that honking, hollow laugh that never touched the eyes but echoed in perfect unison. Julian’s gaze drifted toward the car park where a slate-black Bentley waited for him every morning. His father insisted on appearances.

“Gentlemen,” Julian said, straightening his navy silk tie, “heads high. Poor people can smell fear.”

Another laugh. Louder. Sharper. It bounced off the school’s arched windows like glass cracking under pressure. Somewhere inside, a bell chimed in cathedral tones – second period.

They didn’t rush. Belgrave didn’t do rushing. The rules bent for boys like them.

“Have your parents finalised the ball guest list?” Hugo asked as they strolled through the archway into the school’s cloistered halls. Everything smelled of cedar polish, ambition, and generational money.

‘Of course,” Julian replied. “Only the finest. No one under four million net worth.” A pause. “And no girls from that dreadful French family – the Duclairs. Last year, one of them tried to wear pink.”

Gasps all around.

“Pink to a winter ball?” Oliver Stanton wheezed. “She should be jailed.”

“Executed,” Julian corrected, smiling like ice. “With a plastic fork, just for symbolism.”

And yet, as he passed the glass display cases lining the corridor — all filled with trophies bearing the name SINCLAIR — Julian’s reflection stared back at him too long. There was something about his own eyes that unsettled him. Something hungry. Something hollow.

But he blinked, straightened his shoulders, and looked away.

He had no time for questions. He had a legacy to protect.

The lecture theatre smelled of espresso, old leather, and generations of condescension. Belgrave didn’t call them “classrooms” — they were chambers of excellence, as Principal Ashcroft so often reminded them. Every desk was carved oak. Every seat was embroidered with the crest: a swan impaled by a sword, symbolising “grace through power.”

Julian sat front and centre, as always, his cufflinks catching the morning light — silver with tiny diamonds shaped like falcons. His mother had gifted them for his sixteenth birthday. “So the world remembers you fly above the rest,” she’d said, brushing a single blond curl from his forehead with gloved fingers.

Professor Winstanley was droning on about ethics in empire — some tedious segment on colonial morality — but Julian wasn’t listening. He was already writing his next prefect speech in the margin of his textbook, words curving neatly in expensive ink. “It is not merely about being seen as leaders,” he scribbled, “but being born to lead.”

“Mr. Sinclair,” the professor’s voice sliced through his thoughts like a paper cut, sharp and unexpected. “Would you care to share your opinion on reparations?”

Julian looked up slowly, with the kind of expression that said: Do you know who I am?

He offered a smile — razor-thin. “Certainly, sir. I believe reparation without regulation invites moral chaos. The empire built this world. Shall we tear it down because the foundation offends the floorboards?”

A beat of silence.

Then a few stifled snickers.

The professor’s jaw tightened, but he moved on.

Julian’s friends gave subtle nods from behind. Hugo mouthed, “Brilliant.” Oliver made the gesture of a crown being placed on Julian’s head.

It was always like this. Polished, controlled, revered. Everything he said was either praised or feared. He was the golden boy — sharp-tongued, impeccable, and dripping in prestige. Every moment had to be perfect.

Yet perfection, he’d learned, was a prison with gold-plated bars.

When the bell finally rang, he stood with mechanical grace and followed the others toward the courtyard, where lunch would be waiting in silver-lidded trays prepared by imported chefs.

But as they passed the east corridor, Julian paused. The noticeboard there, usually cluttered with fencing schedules and equestrian trial updates, now bore something different.

A flyer. White. Plain. A single line in bold:

AUDITIONS – NATIONAL RACING TEAM: ENGLAND YOUTH TRIALS – SEPTEMBER

He froze.

His chest fluttered — once, like a moth against glass — and then steadied. No one saw him stop. No one noticed how tightly he gripped the strap of his satchel.

Julian Sinclair was meant to study economics, not chase pipe dreams.

Still, he couldn’t look away.

Hugo caught up to him with a smug scoff. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re actually considering that nonsense.”

Julian didn’t respond. He merely adjusted the sleeve of his blazer and kept walking, his eyes still echoing with the flyer’s bold lettering.

“Racing trials,” Hugo continued, snatching the flyer from the board with two fingers like it was something diseased. “Do we look like peasants in need of scholarships?”

Oliver had joined them now, already lighting a clove cigarette. He inhaled, exhaled a lazy stream of smoke, then grinned.

“I say,” he said, voice curling with amusement, “we make it interesting.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Interesting how?”

Oliver flicked ash off the edge of his cuff. “You win it—actually win it—and I’ll pull a few strings. You know my cousin?” He smirked.

Julian blinked. “Genevieve?”

“Mhm,” Oliver said with a sly nod. “You win this silly little trial, and I’ll see to it that she’s your date to the Winter Ball. On my honour.”

That name, Genevieve, was like a trigger. His mother had spoken it with such delight. Such elegant posture, such refined breeding, she’d cooed. Julian had seen her twice at summer functions—honey blonde hair, lace gloves, a pearl laugh—and convinced himself it meant destiny.

“Fine,” Julian said, schooling his features into careful indifference. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to entertain the public.”

Hugo howled. “Oh please, Julian, don’t actually train. Can you imagine? Mud on your shoes?”

They stepped outside into the daylight, the sharp London air stinging the corners of their eyes. Cars—sleek, silent, expensive—lined the circular drive.

Just across the street, the other school was being let out.

The difference was staggering. Shabbier uniforms, louder voices, students cramming into overcrowded buses and dodging puddles. Julian’s crew slowed their pace, watching like lions above a watering hole.

“Do you think they even own silverware?” Hugo laughed, nudging Julian’s ribs. “Honestly, it’s a wonder they haven’t all pickpocketed each other blind.”

“I once saw one of them drinking from a plastic bottle,” Oliver added. “Plastic, Julian.”

Julian gave a rehearsed chuckle, though his gaze had drifted. Something—or someone—had caught the corner of his eye.

A boy.

Across the street.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Deep brown hair in untidy curls that escaped a worn grey beanie. He was looking down at his shoes as two boys beside him chuckled to each other. He turned—just slightly—and for the briefest second, their eyes met.

A jolt.

Not recognition. Not attraction. Not yet. Just… something. A flicker. A click without a door.

And then the moment was gone. The boy vanished into the swarm of movement and noise, swallowed by the pavement’s chaos.

“Julian,” Hugo snapped. “You’re staring at pigeons, mate. Come on.”

Julian shook himself, adjusting his collar again. “Right. Of course. Shall we?”

The Bentley purred to life, and Julian Sinclair stepped into it like the world was still beneath him.

The Sinclair estate stood on the edge of Regent’s Park, set behind tall wrought-iron gates and older-than-time hedges. A butler in a deep navy tailcoat opened the door before the town car had even stopped rolling. Julian barely nodded as he passed.

Inside, everything gleamed. Parquet flooring polished to an unnatural shine, portraits of sharp cheek boned ancestors watching like gods, and a chandelier that seemed to sneer at the idea of subtlety. Julian dropped his satchel onto the bench by the stairs and smoothed his collar in the hallway mirror.

“Your father is in the parlour,” the butler intoned. “Shall I—?”

“I know where he is, Chester.”

He found his father exactly where he always was at this hour: seated in the leather wingback beside the fire, reading The Telegraph, a tumbler of scotch untouched on the table beside him. The man didn’t look up as Julian entered.

“You were late,” came the crisp remark, hidden behind rustling paper.

“There was traffic on Cromwell Road.”

A pause. His father turned a page.

Julian remained standing.

At last, the paper folded down with a soft snap. Everett Sinclair regarded his son with eyes the same pale grey as Julian’s, but colder somehow. Duller.

“You will take on your grandfather’s seat in the House of Lords one day,” he said. “They will not wait for you to arrive.”

Julian inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

His mother floated in moments later, her perfume arriving before she did—white rose, expensive, suffocating. “Darling,” she beamed, brushing his cheek with a kiss that didn’t quite touch skin. “I’ve just spoken with the Crawfords. Genevieve will be in attendance next month. Isn’t that marvellous?”

Julian’s jaw ached from holding the smile. “Yes, Mother. Marvellous.”

“She’s been asking about you.”

She hadn’t. But that was irrelevant.

“Perhaps,” Everett said dryly, “this will inspire you to take some initiative for once.”

Julian straightened, shoulders pulled back like a soldier. “Actually, I’ve entered something. A racing trial.”

His mother’s brows rose. “A what?”

“For charity,” he lied. “Publicity. A bit of press couldn’t hurt before the Winter Ball, could it?”

Everett gave the smallest grunt. “Just don’t embarrass yourself.”

Julian gave a crisp nod. “Of course not.”

In the silence that followed, only the fire crackled.

He knew what they wanted. A Sinclair who behaved. A Sinclair who won. A Sinclair who married well and kept the legacy pure.

He could be that.

He would be that.

He had to.