Distracted by sin

Chapter Ten

Tristan's POV 

“Where are we on the growth projections for the next quarter?” I say, settling into the chair at the head of the long mahogany table.

The boardroom door clicks shut behind me and the projector hums to life, casting its cold blue light across the faces of my twelve department heads. 

They sit straighter at once, laptops open, notepads ready. The faint scent of fresh coffee hangs in the air but does nothing to hide the tension. Good. A little fear keeps everyone sharp.

Cartwright, head of strategy, clears his throat and clicks the remote. “Mr. Hale, we are looking at a solid twenty-two percent increase if we secure the major infrastructure contract. The rival firms are bidding aggressively on this one. Their proposals undercut us by nearly nineteen percent on labor and materials, and they are promising completion six weeks ahead of our timeline.”

I lean back, eyes narrowing at the slides. “Nineteen percent. Interesting. And what brilliant counter are we offering, or are we planning to hand them the contract wrapped in a bow?”

The head of operations jumps in next. “We can optimize our supply chain by renegotiating vendor contracts. That alone shaves off twelve percent in overhead. I have the full breakdown here if you want to review the numbers.”

“Renegotiating vendors,” I repeat, my tone flat. “Last time we tried that, we ended up with subpar steel that delayed an entire high-rise by three months. Try again. I did not hire you to recycle yesterday’s failures.”

The marketing director, a woman named Ellis who rarely talks unless cornered, speaks up. “Sir, we could launch a targeted campaign emphasizing our flawless delivery record on the last three government projects. Position Hale Dynamics as the safe, premium choice rather than the cheapest bidder. It worked for the airport terminal expansion.”

I drum my fingers once on the table. “Safe is for retirement funds, Ellis. Safe does not crush competition. We lower our bid margin by eight percent, attach performance penalties that would bankrupt any of those rival firms if they slip, and we leak just enough about our proprietary tech edge to make their bids look amateur. That is how we win. Not with pretty ads.”

Murmurs of agreement circle the table, but I see the hesitation in a few eyes. They scribble notes furiously while the next slide appears, full of projected revenue graphs climbing like a perfect staircase. 

The discussion rolls on for another fifteen minutes. Someone suggests exploring a limited partnership with a logistics firm to cut transport costs. Another pushes for early regulatory approvals to speed up permitting. 

I shoot down two half-baked ideas with a single sentence each, watching shoulders tense across the room. This is how empires grow, not by committee hugs but by decisions that leave no room for weakness.

Then the projector shifts to the next slide, a dense bar chart comparing our numbers to the competition. My focus slips. The lines starts to blur. Instead of infrastructure bids and revenue forecasts, my mind fills with the image of Andrea still asleep upstairs in my penthouse, the sheet barely covering those flushed curves, my cum still drying on her thighs from the way I finished inside her less than an hour ago. The way she whispered “Master” like it was the most natural word in her mouth. Fuck.

I should feel disgusted by how easily she folded into the contract. A twenty-four-year-old girl from a bankrupt family playing dress-up at galas, faking estates and university pedigrees like it is some elaborate game. 

During those seven days I waited for her answer, my assistant pulled every scrap of her digital life. Her social profiles are a masterpiece of lies, carefully curated to look like old money. I should see a gold-digging fraud. Instead I am fascinated. She is controllable. Moldable. A blank canvas I can shape without the usual resistance I get from women who think they have leverage.

My hand moves before I can stop it. I pull my phone from my jacket pocket, keeping it low under the table edge where the others cannot see. The screen lights up. Her profile loads instantly, the one she spent years building to hide the truth. I scroll slowly, my thumb moving almost on autopilot. 

There she is at some fake charity brunch, smiling in a rented red dress that hugs her body exactly the way the silk nightwear did last night when I peeled it off her. The caption reads something about “grateful for old friends and new beginnings.” Silly. Innocent. Completely fabricated. 

Another post shows her at a vineyard that does not exist in her real life, laughing with people who probably have no idea she is one bad hospital bill away from losing everything. Her brother Ethan sits in the background of an older family shot, the one she has not bothered to delete. She looks beautiful in every frame, even in the cheap rented gowns. Vulnerable in a way that makes my cock twitch even now, hours later.

The meeting voices fade to a dull hum. I keep scrolling, doom-scrolling really, through three years of her perfectly staged life. A silly selfie with a ridiculous filter that makes her look like some college girl on spring break. A post about “life’s little luxuries” that was probably taken the same week her mother was crying over medical invoices. I should feel disdain. Instead the fascination digs deeper into me because she is mine to control now. No more pretending. No more rented everything. Just the version I decide she will be.

“Boss?” Daniel’s voice cuts back into my hearing. My assistant has slipped in quietly from the side door. “They’re waiting on your say for the final adjustments to the bid structure.”

I blink, heat crawling up my neck for the first time in years. A tycoon like me, reduced to scrolling through a woman’s fake I*******m in the middle of a strategy meeting. Pathetic.

I clear my throat, lock the phone, and slide it back into my pocket. The room has gone dead silent, all eyes on me.

I stand up slowly, buttoning my jacket with deliberate calmness. “This meeting is over. The presentation bored me. Work on a better one by tomorrow morning. A boring strategy will not lift this company to the next level, and I refuse to waste another minute on mediocrity. Fix it.”

Chairs scrape back in stunned silence. No one argues. No one ever does. Cartwright opens his mouth, closes it again. Ellis gathers her notes with trembling fingers. They file out quickly, murmuring among themselves but never loud enough for me to hear complaints. Daniel lingers as the last person leaves, tablet in hand, his expression carefully blank.

He falls into step beside me as I head down the hallway toward my private office. “Sir, before you head out, quick schedule rundown. You have three contracts to sign before close of business today. The legal team already marked the changes you requested. Also, a private investor is inviting you to dinner tomorrow night at the rooftop venue downtown. Black tie, eight o’clock.”

I keep walking, jaw tight. “Reject it. I am busy.”

Daniel does not miss a beat. “Before you say no, sir, we actually do need his help on the Meridian project. His connections with the regulatory board could shave months off the approvals we are waiting on. It is not ideal, but it is strategic.”

I stop at my office door, hand on the knob. The memory of Andrea’s soft “please” from this morning still echoes in my head, mixing with the frustration of being distracted in my own damn meeting. Fine. Business first. Always.

“Make the arrangements, Daniel,” I say, giving him a small nod. “I’ll be attending with a guest.”