Chapter 11 Knox Sinclair Was Not in the Mood
The next morning, I showered, dressed, applied my makeup, and twisted my hair into another neat updo.
We met in Knox’s suite for breakfast. His was noticeably larger than the rest of ours. A long dining table had already been set with trays of breakfast, coffee, and neatly arranged plates. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Strip in soft morning light.
Ethan, Julian, and Marcus were already seated. Knox stood near the window with his phone in hand.
He looked up when I entered.
Our eyes met for a brief second.
Then we both looked away.
Ethan and Julian discussed yesterday’s panels while Marcus complained about Vegas logistics. Knox listened, responding when necessary, nodding occasionally, issuing the occasional instruction.
We ate while reviewing the day’s schedule. Two conferences, a business lunch, and an industry dinner where Knox would deliver a speech about expansion strategies and future acquisitions.
Nothing about our behavior suggested anything unusual had happened.
And yet I felt the shift in the air anyway. The way his attention returned to me without reason. The way his eyes lingered too long when I spoke. The way his jaw tightened when I laughed at something Ethan said.
“We have two hours free this afternoon,” Marcus said between bites. “After lunch.”
Julian groaned. “Vegas during daylight feels illegal.”
“I plan to explore,” I said.
Knox’s eyes flicked to me.
“Stay in public areas,” he said.
The comment caught me slightly off guard.
“Of course,” I replied.
We left shortly after.
The first conference blurred into market projections and investor optimism. The second dissolved into long-term risk modeling and polite competition between firms.
By the time lunch ended, my mind felt crowded and my patience thin.
So when we were released for our break, I did exactly what I had planned.
I left the hotel and stepped into the heat, the noise, the restless movement of the Strip.
Neon signs flashed above the sidewalks. Music spilled out through open doors.
Tourists moved in loud clusters while performers in elaborate costumes posed for photos.
Everything felt bright and chaotic and alive.
I stayed where the crowds were thick and walked slowly along the Strip, letting the desert heat settle into my skin.
That was when I saw it.
A massive illuminated poster stretched across the side of one of the casinos.
UFC Championship Night.
Two fighters stared out from the poster. One of them I didn’t recognize, but the other made my steps slow.
Leo Hartman.
I stopped in front of the display and studied it. So that was what he meant.
Not just a fight. A championship.
I smiled faintly to myself and shook my head as I walked on. Even frozen in print, he carried the same cocky confidence he’d worn so easily the day before.
Thirty minutes later I checked the time on my phone and turned back toward the hotel.
Soon, I was seated in another conference hall. For the next two hours, we listened to discussions about secondary market casino licensing, luxury entertainment zoning, tax structures, and regulatory loopholes.
By the time the final session wrapped up, it was almost six. I had just enough time to freshen up before dinner.
I returned to my room and changed into a fitted black evening dress, pairing it with red heels and matching red lipstick. My blonde hair stayed pinned up.
The industry dinner was held in one of the hotel’s private event halls, a dimly lit space beneath crystal chandeliers with long tables draped in linen.
The room filled quickly with executives, investors, developers, and politicians. People moved in polite circles, smiling with their eyes while calculating with their minds.
As we entered, attention shifted almost immediately toward Knox.
An older man stepped forward, a younger woman at his side.
“Knox, it’s been too long,” he said warmly. “I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Sophia.”
Sophia looked to be in her early twenties, beautiful in a polished, effortless way. Soft dark curls framed her face and her designer dress fit her perfectly. Her curious eyes lingered on Knox with open admiration.
“It’s such an honor to meet you,” she said.
Knox inclined his head politely, though there was little warmth in it. “Likewise.”
“Sophia just finished her degree in communications,” her father added with obvious pride.
“I’ve followed your work for years,” she told Knox.
“That’s kind of you,” he replied with a brief nod.
Meanwhile two businessmen had turned their attention to me.
“Miss Richards, we’ve heard impressive things about your models,” one of them said.
Before I could respond, Knox glanced in our direction. “It’s time to sit before someone steals my analyst.”
The men laughed and I offered a polite smile.
We were guided toward the long central table. By the time we reached our places, Sophia had somehow ended up seated beside Knox.
I was about to move farther down when Knox lifted his hand slightly.
“Ashley,” he said. “Sit here.”
He made sure I took the seat on his other side, placing me between him and Marcus.
Sophia glanced between us, her expression shifting as she quietly recalculated.
Dinner unfolded in overlapping conversations. Sophia tried repeatedly to engage Knox, but within minutes it became clear she wasn’t from the industry. She spoke about travel, fashion, social events, and vague ambitions.
Knox answered politely. Briefly
Across the table, a man leaned toward me and drew me into a discussion about investment trends and emerging markets.
I responded easily. Fluidly.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Knox’s jaw tighten. His answers to Sophia grew shorter. His tone colder.
Then Knox was called to the podium.
He spoke about future markets, strategic expansion, and growth. It was clear people listened. Respected him.
When he returned to the table, his mood had not improved.
Sophia tried again.
It was useless.
Another man attempted to speak to him and was cut off mid-sentence.
Soon it became obvious to everyone.
Knox Sinclair was not in the mood.
By the time dessert arrived, most of the table had learned to give him space.
When dinner ended and chairs shifted back, conversation loosened into polite clusters.
I turned slightly and found a man standing only a few steps away, already watching me.
“Will you join us for a nightcap?” he asked our group, though his attention remained entirely on me.
Knox answered before anyone else could.
“Not tonight. We have a six a.m. flight.”
I blinked. We didn’t. Ours was at ten, but I said nothing.
We gathered and moved toward the elevators together. Inside, Marcus broke the silence.
“You okay, Knox? You’ve been in a mood all evening.”
Knox exhaled sharply. “I’m tired,” he said flatly. “Of fake people. Of everyone wanting something.”
No one argued.