---
6:00 AM. Manhattan glittered like her personal jewelry box.
Amelia Sinclair didn't wake up. She rose.
Her penthouse—twenty-seven floors above the city—basked in soft gold light, her silhouette framed against glass as she stood in nothing but a silk robe and authority. Her hair cascaded in perfect waves down her back, and in her hand, she held her morning espresso like it was an accessory.
Her reflection smirked at her from the floor-length mirror.
"Another day," she murmured, voice like velvet and ice, "another world to own."
Her phone buzzed. Five missed calls. Three marriage proposals. Two offers to buy a Sinclair subsidiary. One death threat in diamond-encrusted envelope paper. Boring.
She padded across marble floors, toes perfectly painted, and entered her walk-in closet—no, her wardrobe wing. Thousands of dollars in dresses and heels watched her like soldiers awaiting orders.
Today, she chose power.
Black Balmain blazer. Skin-tight leather trousers. A thin gold chain around her neck and Louboutin heels that screamed don't even breathe near me.
Her driver was already waiting when she stepped into the elevator. The building's staff bowed subtly. They always did. Not out of love. Out of fear. Out of awe.
Out of knowing that Amelia Sinclair never bowed back.
---
At Sinclair Enterprises' headquarters, her arrival was like a royal procession.
Security nodded without blinking. Assistants scrambled to align her schedule to the minute. Interns whispered behind sleek glass partitions. The elevator opened on the top floor and a junior manager almost spilled his latte.
"Ms. Sinclair," her executive assistant panted as he met her stride, tablet shaking. "You have a nine o'clock with the board, a product reveal at noon, and the fashion week sponsors want to reschedule—"
"Then tell them no," she said without slowing. "Sinclair doesn't chase. We set the pace."
"Yes, ma'am."
Her office door opened. All clean lines and ruthless elegance—just like her. Floor-to-ceiling views of Manhattan, a walnut desk that cost more than a sports car, and fresh lilies placed every morning because she liked the smell of power laced with poison.
She sat, crossed her legs, and adjusted her gold cufflinks.
"Coffee," she said.
An intern nearly tripped rushing in with her preferred single-origin roast, frothed with almond milk at exactly 140 degrees.
Her best friend, Sienna Langford, waltzed in without knocking—because she was the only one who could.
"Why does your assistant look like he's about to pee himself?" Sienna asked, plopping into a velvet armchair.
"Because I just told the investors in Milan to go f*** themselves unless they triple the offer."
Sienna laughed, tossing her Fendi bag on the table. "I forget you're both terrifying and gorgeous until you speak."
Amelia raised a brow. "You came to flatter me?"
"No. I came to invite you to a new underground club tonight. Exclusive. Dangerous. Zero cameras. You need to blow off steam."
"I don't steam," Amelia said coolly. "I incinerate."
Sienna grinned. "Exactly why you need to get drunk and let a man disappoint you."
Amelia smirked. "Tempting. I'll think about it."
---
Later, at lunch, the ambiance changed.
The Sinclair estate was all white marble, priceless art, and echoes of old money. Her mother, Clarissa Sinclair, greeted her in a garden hat and pearls, the very picture of calm elegance.
"My beautiful girl," Clarissa said, pulling her in for a gentle hug. "You're losing weight again. Are your chefs feeding you air?"
"Just the souls of my enemies, Mother."
Clarissa laughed, touching Amelia's cheek. "You always were sharp. Just like your father."
They sat under the garden's archways, a private three-course meal laid out beside the roses. Clarissa poured chamomile tea as if they weren't the richest women in New York.
"I saw you on the cover of Forbes," she said gently. "Your father was proud."
"Past tense?" Amelia said.
Clarissa's smile dimmed. "He's just… more critical these days."
Amelia looked away. "That's not new."
---
Her father's study was a temple of discipline. Charles Sinclair stood at the window in a dark suit, posture perfect, presence powerful. Even age hadn't dimmed him. His eyes were steel.
"You were late," he said without turning.
"I had a meeting," she replied, tone clipped.
"You are the meeting. You don't wait. You don't bend."
She lifted her chin. "I don't."
He turned to face her, slow and calculated. "People admire you. Fear you. But admiration is a coin with two faces. You're pampered, Amelia—but never forget why. It's not love. It's value."
She stiffened. "I know that."
He walked past her, a hand on her shoulder. "Then don't let them take it from you."
---
By the time Amelia returned to her penthouse at midnight, her feet ached, but she didn't care. She dropped her clutch, poured herself a neat scotch, and walked out to the balcony.
The city sparkled below her like a toy.
Messages lit her phone.
> CEO of RosenCorp: "Drinks sometime this week?"
> Fashion Week Director: "That proposal was brilliant. Dinner to celebrate?"
> Ex-fiancé #2: "I still think about you."
She deleted them all.
Being loved wasn't the goal.
Being remembered was.
She leaned against the railing, watching the cars stream below like veins pumping money.
Everyone wanted a piece of her—her time, her touch, her name.
And yet no one truly had her.
Because Amelia Sinclair didn't belong to anyone.
Not her company.
Not her suitors.
Not even her family.
She belonged only to herself.
And tonight, under the black velvet sky, that was enough.
---