Page 27 of What Comes Around

“Who is the tall blonde always next to him?”

“Is she staff or is she sleeping with him?”

“Okay but WHERE did she get those heels??”

“New assistant? Analyst? Or future Mrs. Sinclair?”

People noticed my heels.

My clothes were usually simple. Office appropriate. Pencil skirts, tailored blouses. Nothing that asked for attention. But my shoes were different. They were my quiet indulgence.

I had stopped being ashamed of my height years ago, once the fog of Marissa’s influence lifted. No more hunching. No more trying to fold myself smaller. No more flats chosen out of habit rather than desire. I wore heels because I liked how they made me stand taller, straighter, certain of my own space in the world.

Over the years, a small collection of shoes had formed. Some were designers. Some were random finds from department stores that just happened to look expensive on my feet. Some were impractical. Some were perfect. All of them were chosen.

I bought the heels because I liked beautiful things that carried me forward.

Apparently other people were beginning to like them too.

Just as I closed the article, Knox stopped by my desk.

I looked up instinctively.

I had just closed the article when Knox stopped beside my desk. I looked up instinctively. He stood there with his tablet tucked under one arm, wearing a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his collar open and his sleeves pushed back at the forearms.

“Las Vegas,” he said without preamble.

I blinked once. “As in…?”

“There is a casino development conference in Las Vegas in two weeks,” he said. “It runs for three days and two nights. Private industry access, mostly closed-door panels.”

I straightened slightly in my chair.

“Our team is going,” he added. “You, me, Marcus, Ethan and Julian.”

I nodded slowly, already shifting into work mode. “What’s the primary focus? Licensing? Tech partnerships? Market expansion?”

“All of it,” he replied. “And I want you there for every pitch session and every private meeting.”

Not optional. Not phrased as a question.

“I’ll be ready,” I replied.

“Linda will handle flights, hotel, credentials, logistics,” he continued. “You’ll get the itinerary once it’s finalized.”

“Understood.”

“Good. We leave early next Friday morning.”

Two weeks passed quickly, and I arrived at the airport before sunrise. Chicago was still half asleep. The sky was gray-blue, the autumn air cold enough to sting my lungs when I stepped out of the car.

I was dressed for a full workday, because there would be no time to change once we landed.

Black tailored trousers. A cream silk blouse under a fitted charcoal blazer. My heels were closed-toe, elegant but practical enough to survive long hours. My hair was twisted into a neat bun at the nape of my neck.

A Sinclair staff member met me near security and guided me away from the main terminal.

“Ms. Richards, this way.”