Sin (Full of Sin #1)

Chapter 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.”

I rise smoothly, notebook clutched in one hand. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”

I don’t miss the slight flinch at the use of his last name.

Turning toward the presentation board, I steady myself with a slow breath. “As you all know, SINsual Adult Toys has become an industry leader in innovative pleasure products designed for women. But I believe we can push the brand even further.”

I gesture toward the screen, where the new product line name gleams in bold lettering thanks to Opal’s handiwork. LUST. From the corner of the room, Opal gives me a discreet thumbs-up and a wink.

I click the remote in my hand, bringing up the first slide of the presentation. Sleek black packaging fills the screen, accented with deep crimson lettering. Elegant. Expensive. Sinful in a way that practically begs to be touched.

“This is Lust. A luxury collection inspired by the psychology of desire.”

The room quiets immediately.

I pace slowly near the screen, letting confidence settle over me like armor. “Consumers aren’t just buying products anymore. They’re buying fantasy. Identity. Experience. They want indulgence packaged in a way that makes them feel powerful instead of ashamed.”

Tate nods once, already following where I’m headed. Smart man.

“Our research shows a significant shift in purchasing behavior among women ages twenty-five to forty-five. They’re gravitating toward elevated branding, discreet luxury aesthetics, and products that feel aspirational.

” I pause. “Which means the era of hot pink silicone and tacky novelty names is over. Lust is designed to feel sophisticated. Seductive. Intentional. Every product in the line is named after a different facet of temptation.”

The screen changes to a lineup of products. Velvet. Crave. Obsession. Midnight.

Owen leans forward slightly. “The packaging is beautiful.”

“Exactly,” I say. “I want women to leave these on their nightstands instead of hiding them in sock drawers.”

“That’s either genius marketing or the beginning of societal collapse,” Wilder says.

“Why not both?”

A low chuckle moves around the room, and my nerves ease another fraction.

I continue, “The launch campaign focuses heavily on empowerment and fantasy. Luxury hotel partnerships. Influencer collaborations. High-end subscription boxes. We position Lust as less of a sex toy and more of a lifestyle product.”

Blaze studies the screen carefully. “Projected margins?”

“Thirty-two percent higher than our current premium line.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

Even Foster sits up straighter. “Based on?”

“Manufacturing costs stay nearly identical. The increase comes from branding value and consumer perception.” I glance around the table. “People will spend more money if you convince them they’re purchasing exclusivity instead of just functionality.”

Wilder points at the screen. “So basically you’re selling orgasms with a trust fund aesthetic.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Tate laughs outright while Blaze pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s exhausted by all of us.

I move to the next slide before anyone can derail the meeting further. “The rollout strategy happens in phases. Teaser campaign first. Limited release second. Full retail launch right before Valentine’s Day.”

“Why Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that supposed to be for couples?” Blaze asks.

“Yes.” I smile faintly. “But lonely people spend money.”

“Jesus,” Owen mutters.

“She’s not wrong,” Dante says.

I straighten my shoulders and keep going before my confidence can crack. “I also want to expand the Seven Deadly Sins concept into future collections. Lust is simply the introduction. Eventually, we can build entire campaigns around Envy, Greed, Pride—”

“Wrath sounds aggressive,” Wilder interrupts.

“It’s a working title.”

“What would that even be?” he asks. “A vibrator that insults you?”

Without missing a beat, I say, “No, that’s just your personality.”

The table erupts into laughter. Even Foster smirks.

For the first time all morning, I finally relax enough to know they’re with me.

And then the conference room doors open.

Not loudly, which makes it worse. Because the second Mason Sinclair steps inside, the entire atmosphere changes.

The room doesn’t fall silent so much as surrender.

Conversations die. Attention shifts. Every molecule of oxygen suddenly seems to belong to him.

His gaze sweeps across the room before landing on me.

And for one sharp, humiliating second, everything inside me goes still which is ridiculous. He’s just a man.

A very large, very wealthy, devastatingly attractive man, sure, but still. A man.

Mason is taller than Tate by at least three inches, which feels excessive considering the rest of him.

As if his height alone wasn’t intimidating enough, the universe apparently decided to build him like a heavyweight fighter for fun.

He’s the broadest of the Sinclair brothers, thick through the shoulders and chest in a way that stretches expensive fabric to its absolute limit.

Even beneath a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit—dark gray, thank you very much—there’s no hiding the raw strength underneath.

More than one woman in this office has compared him to a famous Samoan professional wrestler. Honestly? Fair comparison.

His long dark hair is pulled back into a bun, a style that should look ridiculous on any grown man and yet somehow only makes him more dangerous looking.

The neatly groomed beard along his jaw does nothing to soften him.

If anything, it makes him look rougher. Wilder.

Like he belongs on a battlefield with an axe slung over his shoulder instead of sitting in board meetings discussing profit margins and marketing projections.

Power clings to him in a way that feels almost primitive. And deeply, deeply annoying.