Phillip
I stepped up to the receptionist’s desk with a casual smile.
“I’m here to see Miss Sinclair. Is she in?”
“Yes, sir,” she said politely. “You can take the elevator. Her office is on the fifth floor.”
The Sinclair Group was even more massive than I expected—a sleek, towering monument of glass and ego, humming with quiet power. But not much could impress me these days. Hands tucked into the pockets of my tailored trousers, I strolled into the elevator like I owned it.
By the time I reached the fifth floor, my game face was locked in. Calm, cold, composed. Alice was no lightweight—she was a force, a shark in designer heels. Her name stirred whispers in Manhattan’s elite circles. For a woman to carve out this kind of dominance in real estate? Even I had to give a nod of respect.
I knocked once, then pushed the office door open. She stood with her back to me, gazing out of a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a breathtaking view of the city. Her silhouette? Even more breathtaki
