Chapter 21
Sin
Richard’s office is made of glass, steel, and silence. It’s the kind of silence that costs nine hundred dollars an hour. I sit across from him at eight in the morning with a black coffee going cold in my hand and no wedding ring on my finger.
He notices because Richard Collier notices everything. That’s why I pay him an obscene amount of money to keep my life from burning down. Unfortunately, my life has already found matches.
He sets a legal pad in front of him. “Start at the beginning.”
I laugh once. It sounds awful.
“The beginning was twenty-six years ago when I married someone I never should have.”
“Then start with what matters legally.”
“That narrows it?”
His expression doesn’t change. No sense of humor before nine. Noted.
I set the coffee on the table. “Jenna knows I’m involved with someone.”
“At the company.”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
I hesitate.
Richard looks up. “Sin.”
“Laurel Cross.”
Recognition flickers. “The one leading the new product launch?”
“Yes.”
He writes something down. I hate that. The scrape of pen on paper feels like a sentence being passed.
“How long?” he asks.
“Almost three months now.”
“Was she directly reporting to you?”
“Not officially.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“She reported through Tate for the product line, but I oversee the company. I’ve reviewed her work. Approved travel. Sat in meetings. Gave feedback on prototypes.”
“So yes.”
My jaw tightens. “Yes.”
He writes again.
“And the relationship was consensual?”
My eyes lift to his. “Completely.”
“I need facts, not offense.”
“It was consensual, Richard.”
“Any texts that support that?”
“Yes.”
“Do not delete anything.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good. Any threats? Promotions? Pay changes? Travel arrangements that could be argued as preferential?”
I look toward the window. Chicago sits gray and sharp below us. Let’s see, there’s Seattle, Amsterdam, my private jet, hotel rooms, locked offices…
Richard sighs. “Sin.”
“Yes.”
He leans back. “I’m going to say this plainly because you need plain. Divorce is one issue. The workplace relationship is another. Jenna may use both, but the shareholders and board will care most about the second.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” He taps his pen once against the pad.
“You’re not just a man having an affair.
You are the CEO of a company sleeping with a key employee during a major product launch.
Even if she was willing, even if she pursued you, even if every part of it was mutual, there’s a power imbalance. A big one.”
The words land hard. Not because I haven’t thought them. Because I have. Every day.
And still put my hands on her.
“I won’t let this hurt her,” I say.
Richard’s expression softens by a fraction.
“Sin, you may not get to decide that.”
My hand curls around the arm of the chair.
“She has a job offer from Sex Activity Pro,” I say.
His brows lift. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s earned.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“She’s brilliant.”
“I know. That’s not the question.”
“What is?”
“If she leaves now, will it look like she was pushed out because of the affair?”
My stomach turns.
“Or,” he continues, “will it look like she took confidential launch information to a direct competitor after having an undisclosed relationship with the CEO?”
The room goes very still.
“No,” I say.
“That is exactly how someone will frame it if this gets ugly.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m not accusing her. I’m telling you what opposing counsel, the board, shareholders, or the press may suggest if they decide it serves them.”
I stand because sitting is impossible and Richard lets me pace.
“Laurel doesn’t deserve any of this.”
“No. She doesn’t.”
I stop near the window. My reflection looks back at me. Suit. Tired eyes. Bare left hand. Man who should have known better and did it anyway.
“What do I do?” I ask.
“First, you disclose the relationship to the board and stockholders before anyone else does it for you.”
My stomach hardens. “Today?”
“Today.”
“Even Owen?”
“Owen will need to know as Chief Compliance Officer.”
“Owen will kill me.”
“Probably not literally.”
“You don’t know Owen.”
Richard ignores that. “Second, Laurel needs independent counsel if this becomes formal. Not company counsel. Not your counsel. Hers.”
I nod once.
“Third, you remove yourself from all employment decisions involving her. Compensation, role, travel, discipline, anything tied to Sex Activity Pro, anything tied to the launch.”
“That’s easy.”
“No, it isn’t. You’re emotionally involved.”
“I can be objective.”
Richard stares at me. I hate attorneys.
“Fine,” I say. “I can try to be objective.”
“Trying is not a policy.”
I drag a hand through my hair.
“Fourth,” he says, “you need to decide whether you are stepping down temporarily, appointing an interim reporting structure, or asking the board to approve a conflict management plan.”
“That sounds like corporate exile.”
“It’s consequences, my friend.”
The word hits. Consequences. There they are. Not theoretical. Not someday.
Now.
“What about Jenna?” I ask.
“I’ll reach out to her attorney once she has one. Do you want to file first?”
I close my eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt her more than I already have.”
“Then be clean.” Richard leans forward. “No games. No hiding assets. No punishing her for being angry. No letting guilt make you stupid. If the marriage is over, end it respectfully.”
I nod. That much, at least, I can do.
My phone starts vibrating on the table.
I glance at it.
Tate.
Then it stops. Immediately starts again.
Blaze.
Then Wilder.
Then Owen.
My blood goes cold.
Richard watches my face. “What happened?”
I pick up the phone. There are eighteen unread texts. Three missed calls from Tate. Two from Blaze. One from Dante. Five from Owen. And a screenshot from Wilder. My thumb goes numb as I open it.
Jenna’s name sits at the top of the post. Her picture beside it. Her words beneath.
After twenty-six years of marriage, I never imagined I’d have to write something like this.
I have loved my husband through more than most people will ever know, but I refuse to keep protecting someone who has humiliated me privately and publicly.
Mason Sinclair has been carrying on an AFFAIR with an employee at his company while pretending to work on our marriage.
I am heartbroken, embarrassed, and done being silent!
The post already has hundreds of reactions. Dozens of comments shares. My lungs lock.
Richard stands. “Sin.”
I can’t look away. An employee at his company. She didn’t name Laurel. But people will figure it out.
Another text appears from Owen.
Get to the office. Now.
Then one from Blaze.
Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.
Then Wilder.
You’re just like Dad.
I close my hand around the phone so hard the case creaks. Richard’s voice is calm behind me. Too calm.
“Do not respond publicly.”
“I need to call Laurel.”
“Yes. But carefully.”
“She’s sick with the flu right now.”
“She’s also about to be dragged into a corporate and personal scandal. Call her. Tell her not to respond to anyone. Tell her to save every message she receives. Then get to your office.”
My pulse is a hard, ugly thing in my throat.
I call Laurel. It rings four times. Then her sleepy, rough voice answers.
“Sin?”
My chest twists. She sounds terrible. Feverish. Soft. Mine.
No.
Not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever after today.
“Laurel,” I say. “Listen to me.”
She goes quiet immediately. “What happened?”
“Jenna posted about the affair.”
Silence. Then a small inhale.
“She named me?”
“No.”
“But people will know.”
I close my eyes. “Yes.”
“Okay,” she says.
That one word nearly breaks me. Not panic. Not anger. Just okay. Like she has been waiting for the world to come collect.
“Don’t answer anyone,” I say. “No calls. No texts. No emails except from Owen or me. Screenshot anything you receive. Don’t delete anything.”
“Am I fired?”
The question guts me.
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“Sin.”
“I won’t.”
Her voice cracks slightly. “You may not get to decide that.”
Richard’s exact words.
I grip the edge of the table. “Laurel—”
“I’m okay,” she says, which is a lie so obvious I almost laugh. “Go deal with your brothers.”
“I’m coming to you after.”
“No.” Her voice sharpens despite the sickness. “Don’t come here. Not today. Not with people watching.”
She’s right. I hate that she is right.
I love you, I almost say.
It rises fast. Hard. Desperate. But not like this. Not as panic. So I swallow it just like every other time I’ve almost said it.
“I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“Okay.”
“Lock your door.”
“I’m sick, not helpless.”
“Laurel.”
A faint, tired sigh. “Fine. I’ll lock the door.”
The call ends and I stand there with the phone in my hand and fury burning through the shock.
Not at Jenna. Not fully. She’s hurt and angry, and, honestly, she has every right to be both.
But Laurel is sick in her apartment, and the company is about to turn her into a headline. That, I cannot allow.
Richard grabs his briefcase. “Let’s go.”
“You’re coming?”
“Yes. You are about to walk into a room full of angry Sinclairs. Someone should be there who bills by the hour and doesn’t throw punches.”
By the time I reach the office, the storm has already hit. People look away when I walk through the lobby. Some stare. Some whisper. Some pretend not to whisper, which is worse.
I take the private elevator up. Richard stands beside me, silent. My phone keeps vibrating but I ignore it.
When the elevator doors open, Owen is waiting. His face is carved from stone. That’s how I know he is furious.
“Owen,” I say.
“Conference room. Now.”
“Are the shareholders—”
“Not yet.” His eyes cut to Richard. “Good. Counsel.”
Richard nods. “Good to see you, Owen.”
“Don’t. We don’t have time for pleasantries.”