---
The wind stirred Amelia's silk robe as she stood on her penthouse balcony, staring out over the Manhattan skyline like it owed her something.
Inside, her phone pinged again.
She didn't check it. Not yet. That buzzing, blinking screen was a constant, hungry thing. Everyone wanted a piece of Amelia Sinclair. And she let them want.
She didn't give.
Instead, she turned, walked back inside, and peeled off her day armor—heels, blazer, gold. Underneath it all, she was still sharp. Still dangerous. Still untouchable.
By 7:00 AM, she was dressed in crisp cream tailoring and caramel heels that matched her lip gloss. A vintage Cartier watch rested on her wrist—not because she needed the time, but because it reminded everyone else that her time was worth more than theirs.
Her town car pulled up to the Sinclair Enterprises Tower. She didn't look at the man opening her door, didn't thank the staff who bowed. She expected excellence, not gratitude.
Inside the lobby, marble gleamed. A new art installation—some absurd deconstruction of capitalism—hung from the atrium ceiling. Amelia passed it with a glance.
"Make it disappear," she said to her assistant without breaking stride. "I don't need lectures on late-stage capitalism in my lobby."
"Yes, Ms. Sinclair."
At her office, Natalie was already waiting with two iced coffees and a wicked grin.
"You made headlines again."
Amelia took the drink, uninterested. "Let me guess. 'Ice Queen Freezes Out Tech Tycoon in Historic Deal.' Or 'Sinclair Snaps Again?'"
"Close. 'Does Amelia Sinclair Even Bleed?'"
Amelia smirked. "Only Gucci."
They walked into the executive conference room, where the senior board was already seated. Grey suits, older men, expensive pens. All of them technically worked for her, but few ever remembered that.
Until she opened her mouth.
"We're killing the Crestline merger," she announced, placing a tablet on the table. "They're laundering, their stocks are rotting, and their CEO just got hit with a harassment lawsuit. If you want to explain to the press why Sinclair backed that, go ahead. I'll be in Paris."
Silence. Then, cautious nods.
She turned, already done. Power wasn't in discussion. It was in deciding.
---
After the meeting, she paused by the glass wall overlooking the city. Her assistant hovered nervously.
"Something else?"
"Um, yes, Ms. Sinclair. You've been invited to the Infinity Circle Gala. It's… selective. Private."
"I don't do parties," she said without looking at him.
"This one's different. No press. No sponsors. Just names that don't need introductions."
Amelia turned. Raised an eyebrow.
"I'll think about it."
---
That afternoon, she met her mother for tea at the Sinclair estate. The white roses had just bloomed.
"You're tense," Eliza murmured, stirring her tea slowly.
"I'm always tense," Amelia replied. "Relaxation is for people who aren't running empires."
Eliza reached across the table, her warm hand soft on Amelia's fingers. "You're still so young."
"I'm twenty-seven, Mother. That's practically middle-aged in my world."
Eliza smiled, but her eyes held something deeper—sadness, maybe. Or pride warped by worry.
"Just… don't forget to be human."
Amelia's lips twitched. "I'll pencil that in between board takeovers."
They sat in silence for a while, the roses trembling in the breeze.
---
That evening, she attended a private art unveiling uptown. Natalie dragged her there under the pretense of "culture," but Amelia knew it was all power theater—who wore what, who stood with whom, who was no longer speaking to who.
She moved through the crowd like a queen among actresses. Whispers followed her.
"She's here—"
"—that's Sinclair, the ice bitch—"
"—no, I heard she slept with the Milan investor to close that deal—"
"—as if she has to. She could buy his family tree."
Amelia tuned it all out.
Until she saw her.
Jade Kensington.
Daughter of one of the Sinclair board members. Pretty, polite, perfect—on the surface. But Amelia knew better. Jade smiled with her teeth and plotted with her manicures.
And she was standing with two executives Amelia had personally fired last year.
Natalie leaned in. "She's gunning for your seat again."
"She should aim higher. That one's mine."
Natalie sipped her wine. "Want me to trip her?"
"No need. Her ambition will choke her eventually."
Amelia turned to leave, bored of the gallery, the fake compliments, the diamond-encrusted envy. But as she slipped into the shadows near the exit, a tall man brushed past her, deliberately close.
He didn't stop. Didn't introduce himself. Just left behind the scent of spice, leather, and something darker.
And in the pocket of her coat—
A black card.
Smooth, matte, with one word in gold:
INFINITY.
She stared at it.
No number. No name. Just the unspoken invitation.
Her breath caught. Just a second.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she wasn't—and that was new.
---
Back at the penthouse, she poured herself another drink, this time bourbon.
The city outside roared like a dragon she'd already tamed.
But that black card sat on her marble countertop like a dare.
And Amelia Sinclair didn't turn down dares.
She traced the word with her manicured nail.
INFINITY.
She would go.
She would own the room.
Like she always did.
But for the first time in a very long time…
She felt the first stir of curiosity.
Like someone, somewhere, was about to walk into her world—and not just want her name or her power.
But her.
She set the glass down, hard.
Her reflection in the window was still composed. Still perfect.
But her pulse… had quickened.
---