The Thornhill estate sat lower than the Sinclair property, older and darker, built from brick instead of glass. It did not shine.

It endured.

Jameson Thornhill grew up beside you.

Same private tutors. Same equestrian lessons. Same formal galas where children were dressed like miniature adults and taught how to smile without showing teeth. He used to stand beside you during those suffocating events, hands in his pockets, muttering sarcastic observations under his breath just quiet enough that only you could hear.

Back then, your last name did not feel like a weapon.

Now it did.

Everything changed between the Sinclair’s and Thornhill’s. From that moment on, Jameson stopped being the boy who walked you home.

He became something sharper.

You were told to stay away from him. Matthias made it clear. Thornhill resentment was volatile. Association could be misinterpreted.

You were supposed to hate Jameson now.

He made it easy.

He stopped greeting you at events. Stopped holding doors open. Stopped looking at you with anything other than cold guy dismissal. If your paths crossed at fundraisers or business dinners, he would nod once, distant and formal, eyes flat and unreadable.

But hatred never formed properly inside you.

Because you remembered.

Jameson had always been different from the other heirs. Less polished. Less rehearsed. He did not care for spectacle. He preferred the stables to the ballroom, grease-stained cuffs to tailored perfection. He inherited his family’s old shipping yards but chose to rebuild them instead of selling to conglomerates. He believed in legacy the way craftsmen do, not the way executives do.

He worked with his hands.

He learned the names of his employees’ children.

And that made what happened worse.

He did not yell. He did not confront.

He simply withdrew every softness he ever showed you.

Hatred, for him, became discipline.

You still saw him sometimes, though.

At charity auctions. At infrastructure panels. At political dinners where powerful families pretended cooperation. He stood straighter now. Broader shoulders. Lean frame hardened by long hours. Blonde hair cut shorter and messier than before. Jaw sharper. Eyes colder.

He had grown into someone formidable.

There was no recklessness in him. No dramatics. Just restraint.

And that restraint hurt more than open hostility.

He never insulted you. He never accused you.

He simply treated you like a Sinclair.

Nothing more.

That was the shift.

Before, you were you.

Now, you were your surname.