Page 1 of Sin

1

Laurel

The office is abuzz with excitement. I get it. I really do. Today is a big day because the big boss is here. Mason Alexander Sinclair III. The man whose name is stamped across the building, the company letterhead, and probably half the nervous breakdowns in this office. God knows he’s responsible for most of mine.

I finish the email I’m typing because the vendor on the other end has already delayed our holiday launch twice, and I’m not about to let a shipment of peppermint-themed vibrators tank my entire fourth quarter. Once I hit send, I log out of my computer and grab my notebook.

My assistant, Opal, stops me the second I pass her desk.

“Want in on the bet?”

My lips twitch. Opal is sixty years old, wears bifocals on a chain around her neck, owns approximately one thousand matching pantsuits, gets her gray hair permed once a month like clockwork, and has a gambling problem unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. HR insists her office betting pools are “harmless morale boosters,” but I’m fairly certain they don’t know some of them clear over a thousand dollars.

“What’s this one for?” I ask.

Last week, the bet was centered around when Missy in finance would go into labor. Opal won, naturally. I’m convinced it’s because her son happens to be Missy’s husband.

“We’re betting on what Mr. Sinclair’s going to wear today.”

“You know he’s showing up in a Tom Ford suit.”

“Well, yes. You and I know that.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “But not everyone has good sense. Want to sweeten the pot and bet on the color?”

“No.” I pause. “But if I were a betting woman, I’d say dark gray.”

She points at me like I’ve validated her entire existence. “I knew I liked you, Ms. Cross.”

“Close out your bets and meet me in the boardroom.”

“Will do.”

I head toward the conference room with my team trailing behind me. Six of the seven Sinclair brothers are already there, and I’ll give you one guess who’s missing. Mason. Shocking absolutely no one. The man is late ninety-nine percent of the time, yet somehow everyone still waits for him like he’s royalty instead of a corporate menace in Italian leather shoes.

Tate notices me first. He smiles and motions me over.

“Morning, Laurel. I think we’re going to start without Sin.”

I bite back a laugh when Wilder mutters, “Good call, bro. Otherwise we’ll be here until midnight.”

There are seven Sinclair brothers total. According to office gossip, they all have different mothers, but they’re bound together by the kind of loyalty only a ruthless father and a billion-dollar company could create. You’d never guess they were related just by looking at them. Take Tate, for example. Tall and lean with blond hair buzzed close to his scalp, he has the kind of easy smile that probably closes multimillion-dollar deals before he even opens his mouth. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, making him seem approachable in a way his older brother absolutely is not.

Foster glances toward the head of the table. “Blaze, call the meeting to order.”

“Heaven forbid you do it,” Blaze mutters.

Foster turns to Dante. “Am I asking too much of our brother? He is the COO.”

Dante only rolls his eyes, so Owen sighs dramatically. “Boys. We’re in public.”

Watching them interact is objectively entertaining. Normally, I’d jump into the chaos without hesitation. But today, nerves sit heavy in my stomach, sharp and restless because today is the day I announce my newest product line.

The Seven Deadly Sins collection.

And Mason Sinclair—the one man whose approval I can never quite read—isn’t here yet.

Blaze clears his throat, and the atmosphere changes instantly. It’s subtle but unmistakable. Spines straighten. Side conversations die mid-sentence. Executives scramble into seats like children caught misbehaving. A few stragglers slip through the doors at the last second, drawn in like moths to a flame. Poor idiots. Don’t they know what happens when you get too close?

“Okay, folks,” Blaze says. “Let’s get started. Ms. Cross, the floor is yours.”