Chapter 9 Sin City
I had been working at Sinclair for four months, and Knox had begun taking me with him to more and more initial meetings.
Early-stage pitches, high-level proposals that hadn’t yet earned the right to fail publicly.
I didn’t speak much in those rooms unless he asked me to, but I listened.
I watched. I took notes. I learned the rhythm of power.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped being invisible.
Slowly, without meaning to, I began appearing in the background of more business photos than I realized. Standing behind Knox at a signing. Sitting a few chairs away during negotiations. Walking beside him through glass corridors.
Amy noticed before I did. She always did. That girl had digital tentacles everywhere.
She sent me a link with no explanation.
I opened the article and scrolled. The comments were already alive.
“Who is the tall blonde always next to him?”
“Is she staff or is she sleeping with him?”
“Okay but WHERE did she get those heels??”
“New assistant? Analyst? Or future Mrs. Sinclair?”
People noticed my heels.
My clothes were usually simple. Office appropriate. Pencil skirts, tailored blouses. Nothing that asked for attention. But my shoes were different. They were my quiet indulgence.
I had stopped being ashamed of my height years ago, once the fog of Marissa’s influence lifted.
No more hunching. No more trying to fold myself smaller.
No more flats chosen out of habit rather than desire.
I wore heels because I liked how they made me stand taller, straighter, certain of my own space in the world.
Over the years, a small collection of shoes had formed. Some were designers. Some were random finds from department stores that just happened to look expensive on my feet. Some were impractical. Some were perfect. All of them were chosen.
I bought the heels because I liked beautiful things that carried me forward.
Apparently other people were beginning to like them too.
Just as I closed the article, Knox stopped by my desk.
I looked up instinctively.
I had just closed the article when Knox stopped beside my desk. I looked up instinctively. He stood there with his tablet tucked under one arm, wearing a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his collar open and his sleeves pushed back at the forearms.
“Las Vegas,” he said without preamble.
I blinked once. “As in…?”
“There is a casino development conference in Las Vegas in two weeks,” he said. “It runs for three days and two nights. Private industry access, mostly closed-door panels.”
I straightened slightly in my chair.
“Our team is going,” he added. “You, me, Marcus, Ethan and Julian.”
I nodded slowly, already shifting into work mode. “What’s the primary focus? Licensing? Tech partnerships? Market expansion?”
“All of it,” he replied. “And I want you there for every pitch session and every private meeting.”
Not optional. Not phrased as a question.
“I’ll be ready,” I replied.
“Linda will handle flights, hotel, credentials, logistics,” he continued. “You’ll get the itinerary once it’s finalized.”
“Understood.”
“Good. We leave early next Friday morning.”
Two weeks passed quickly, and I arrived at the airport before sunrise. Chicago was still half asleep. The sky was gray-blue, the autumn air cold enough to sting my lungs when I stepped out of the car.
I was dressed for a full workday, because there would be no time to change once we landed.
Black tailored trousers. A cream silk blouse under a fitted charcoal blazer. My heels were closed-toe, elegant but practical enough to survive long hours. My hair was twisted into a neat bun at the nape of my neck.
A Sinclair staff member met me near security and guided me away from the main terminal.
“Ms. Richards, this way.”
We moved through a private corridor into the private jet lounge, a quiet space of glass walls, leather seating, low lighting, and espresso machines humming softly in the background. Conversations drifted through the room between people who did not fly commercial.
Knox had rented a private jet.
From the lounge I was escorted directly onto the tarmac. The jet waiting there gleamed in the early morning light.
Inside, it was nothing like any plane I had flown on before.
Cream leather seats lined the cabin beside polished wood accents and soft recessed lighting.
A long table ran through the center for meetings, screens built seamlessly into the walls.
Toward the back sat a small bar, discreet and immaculate.
Everything smelled faintly of clean leather and money.
Knox was already seated, laptop open, working.
Across from him sat Ethan and Julian. Both looked up when I stepped inside.
“There she is,” Julian said with a grin. “Ready for Vegas?”
“As ready as one can be for three days of corporate survival,” I replied.
Ethan laughed. “Last year was brutal. I still have flashbacks of that final negotiation dinner.”
“I heard someone cried,” Julian added.
“I did not cry,” Ethan protested. “I aggressively blinked.”
A faint smile touched my mouth as I crossed the aisle and took the seat across from Knox.
He glanced up briefly, gave a small nod of acknowledgment, then returned his attention to the screen of his laptop.
I pulled out my tablet and began scrolling through emails, already slipping back into work mode.
A flight attendant appeared a moment later. She was young and strikingly beautiful.
“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Can I get you anything to drink before takeoff?” she asked, leaning just slightly closer than necessary.
He didn’t even look up. “Coffee. Black.”
She lingered longer than necessary, then turned to me.
“And for you, Miss?”
“Coffee as well. Thank you.”
She took Ethan’s and Julian’s orders before disappearing toward the back of the cabin.
When she returned, Knox’s cup came first. She set it carefully beside him and offered another warm smile. He acknowledged her with a brief nod, already back to work.
The smile faded slightly as she moved on.
A few minutes later Marcus arrived.
He paused just inside the cabin and looked around with clear satisfaction. “Private jet again, Knox? You spoil us.”
“Sit down,” Knox replied without looking up.
Marcus grinned and took his seat.
The flight from Chicago to Las Vegas lasted just under four hours. The plane touched down a little after eight in the morning.
The desert heat hit me the second the cabin door opened. Dry. Sharp. So different from Chicago’s cool morning. The sky was a perfect, unforgiving blue.
A black luxury SUV waited on the private tarmac, engine already running, driver standing straight beside the door.
“Welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. Sinclair,” he greeted with a respectful nod.
Knox returned the gesture briefly, and we loaded in without ceremony.
The drive to the hotel took less than twenty minutes. The conference was being hosted inside one of Sinclair’s partner casino properties, a polished expanse of marble floors and crystal lighting designed to impress before anyone even reached the gaming tables.
We checked in and received our keycards. We had thirty minutes before the first session.
I went upstairs, dropped my bag, checked my reflection, retied my bun, reapplied lipstick, and was back in the lobby within twelve.
We regrouped and headed straight into the first conference.
The opening panel lasted two hours. By the time it ended, my brain had already begun discarding half the information.
We were released for a forty minute break.
Ethan and Julian wanted sushi from a place inside the casino and Marcus followed them. Knox was pulled aside almost immediately by a small group of investors.
I had no interest in sushi and even less interest in hovering nearby while Knox handled business.
So I went alone.
I chose a quieter restaurant tucked near the edge of the complex. I ordered grilled sea bass, a side salad, and sparkling water, then took my receipt and found an empty table near the windows.
I had barely sat down when a man appeared in front of me.
“Mind if I sit?”
He was already pulling out the chair.
Before I could answer, he sat.