Page 3 of Sin

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.

At his side is his wife, Jenna, which surprises me enough to break my stare. Mason almost never brings her to the office. She’s elegant in a sleek cream dress, one hand resting lightly against his arm as they walk inside together like some terrifyingly beautiful power couple sent to destroy everyone’s self-esteem. They are a devastating couple, both of them with dark hair and looks that people pay millions for.

“Sorry I’m late, everyone,” Mason says smoothly. Then his eyes flicker back to mine. “Please continue, Ms. Cross.”

But, of course, it’s never that simple. Mason pulls out the empty chair beside him for Jenna before rounding the table. Instead of taking the open seat at the end, he slides directly into mine, which forces me to step sideways so quickly I nearly lose my balance in front of the entire executive board.

A large hand presses briefly against the small of my back, steadying me before I can stumble. Heat burns through the thin fabric of my blouse.

“Steady,” Mason murmurs.

My pulse betrays me instantly and I straighten so fast I almost get whiplash and move to the other side of the presentation screen before anyone notices the way my face warms.

Professional. I am a freaking professional.

“As I was saying,” I continue smoothly, refusing to look at him, “the new collection will revolve around the Seven Deadly Sins. If you’ll check your tablets, you’ll see the projected marketing strategy for Q4 and Q1 leading into the launch.”

I click to the next slide.

“The goal is immersion,” I explain. “Every sin becomes an emotional experience. Lust focuses on desire⁠—”

“It won’t work.” The words cut cleanly across the room.

My stomach drops. Slowly, I turn toward Mason. He’s leaning back in my chair like he owns it—and technically, I guess he does. One arm rests along the armrest while the other taps lazily against the conference table. His expression gives away nothing.

Every eye in the room swings between us.

I force myself to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry?”

“The branding.” Mason nods once toward the screen. “It’s been done before.”

A flush creeps up my neck. Not because he disagreed. God knows executives disagree all the time. But because of how easily he said it. Like dismantling six months of my work required no effort whatsoever.

I clasp the presentation remote tighter. “The data strongly supports luxury-focused intimacy marketing.”

“It supports discretion,” he counters. “Not desire.”