The Royal Playgirl
I’m Priscilla Sinclair, and I always get what I want.
From the moment I could understand the weight of my last name, I knew the world was mine for the taking. My father, the illustrious Sinclair patriarch, built an empire with his hands, a conglomerate that spanned industries like beauty, fashion, and real estate. But I? I’ve perfected it. Sinclair Beauty stands at the pinnacle of the industry, with me as its queen. And let’s be honest, it doesn’t hurt that I’ve got the looks to match the power. The media calls me “The Royal Playgirl,” and they aren’t wrong.
Men are my toys. I collect them like one might gather rare jewels—admire them for a while, wear them until they’ve served their purpose, then discard them when something shinier comes along. Love? It’s for the weak. I’ve watched too many women in this city weep over men who don’t deserve a second glance. I decided long ago that wouldn’t be me. Instead, I use them for pleasure, for distraction, and to remind myself just how much control I have.
The penthouse I live in is a sanctuary of excess. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the bustling skyline of New York City, and the sheer luxury inside would make anyone’s jaw drop. Custom Italian furniture, artwork from some of the world’s finest artists, and a wardrobe that would make any fashion lover faint. It’s a reflection of who I am—powerful, untouchable, and dripping in decadence.
Tonight, like many nights, I’m wrapped in satin, the kind that clings to every curve of my body, drawing the gaze of every man in the room. The party is one of those high-society events—black-tie, champagne flowing endlessly, and a sea of designer gowns. It’s the perfect hunting ground for someone like me.
I spot him from across the room, a new face, fresh and eager. His suit is perfectly tailored, and he carries himself with that boyish arrogance, like he thinks he’s in control. How adorable. I lean back against the marble bar, taking a sip of my drink as I eye him, letting the tension build. He notices me, of course—how could he not?
The next few minutes are a dance. He approaches, flashing a charming smile, thinking he’s the one doing the chasing. What a laugh. I let him talk, throw a few compliments my way, and then I give him that look—the one that makes every man think they’ve won me over. His name doesn’t even matter; he’s just tonight’s entertainment.
“I’ve seen you in magazines. Priscilla Sinclair, right? You’re even more stunning in person.”
His voice is smooth, but his eyes give him away. They’re filled with lust, the kind I’ve seen a thousand times. It doesn’t take much to reel him in. A soft laugh, a hand grazing his arm, and soon he’s completely under my spell.
By the time we’re back at my penthouse, he’s putty in my hands. I lead him inside, and his eyes widen at the sight of the place—just like they always do. Men are so predictable. I push him against the wall, my lips teasing his neck as he groans softly. His hands roam my body, desperate, needy, but I’m the one in control.
I pull him towards my bedroom, my fingers curling in his shirt as he follows eagerly. The anticipation in the air is thick, and I can feel his pulse quicken as we get closer. Once we’re inside, I push him onto the bed, straddling him with ease. The silk sheets slide beneath us as I lean down, whispering in his ear.
“You’re mine tonight,” I murmur, my voice dripping with dominance.
His breath hitches, and I can see the desire clouding his eyes as my hands trail down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness. Every touch, every kiss, it’s all part of the game. I feel his muscles tense beneath my fingertips, his body trembling with anticipation as my lips brush his skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
He’s completely at my mercy now, and I love it. The way his hands grip the sheets, the way he bites his lip, trying to hold back his moans—it’s intoxicating. But this isn’t about him, not really. It’s about the power I hold, the control I wield over him. The satisfaction I get from knowing that for tonight, I own him.
Our bodies move together, the room filled with the sounds of passion and the rustle of silk. It’s a perfect symphony of pleasure and power. He’s lost in the moment, but my mind is already a step ahead. I know how this will end. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up, find his clothes neatly folded on the chair, and realize that last night was a fleeting fantasy. And I’ll be gone, off to another meeting, another conquest, another man.
Because that’s the way it always is. Men are fleeting, disposable. They come and go, leaving behind nothing but satisfaction and the thrill of the chase. I, however, remain untouchable, the queen of my empire, and no man will ever tame me.
As he drifts into sleep beside me, exhausted and spent, I slip out of bed, watching the moonlight filter through the windows and cast a soft glow on my skin. I gaze at the skyline, the city that bows at my feet, and I smile to myself.
Love? I’ve no need for it. I’m Priscilla Sinclair, and this is my world. Men can play their little games, but they’ll always lose. Because I’m the one holding all the cards, and I never lose. Start writing here…
I slip into the bathroom, leaving him behind, his chest rising and falling in the deep sleep of someone utterly drained. The cool marble tiles feel good against my bare feet as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The room is illuminated by soft, golden light, giving me a halo effect, as if I were some kind of goddess. In a way, I suppose I am—untouchable, exalted, envied.
The reflection staring back is everything a woman in my position should be—flawless. My dark hair spills over my shoulders in silky waves, framing my face. My skin is smooth, golden, and my lips, still slightly swollen from the night’s pleasures, curve into a satisfied smile. I trail a hand down my own body, admiring the way the curves flow beneath the silk robe I threw on. Power. That’s what I see when I look at myself. Power, beauty, and control.
He was good. A distraction. But that’s all they ever are. My conquests are as disposable as the expensive dresses hanging in my closet. Something to be tried on, admired for a while, and then cast aside for the next new thrill. The thrill doesn’t come from them, though—it comes from knowing that I hold the reins. That they are my puppets, and I, the puppet master.
The room smells of luxury—scented candles, faint traces of his cologne, and my own signature fragrance, a perfume line I created specifically for women like me: bold, beautiful, and untamable. It’s a best-seller, of course. Women want to feel like me—wanted, powerful, desired. And men? They can’t help but fall at my feet, desperate to bask in my glow, if only for a fleeting moment.
After washing my face, I head back into the bedroom. He’s still sprawled across the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, his muscular chest exposed. A part of me admires the sight, but only for a moment. I’m already bored. Already thinking about tomorrow’s board meeting and the new product launch that’s going to shatter every sales record in the industry. That’s what excites me—the challenge of running an empire, the thrill of taking something from concept to reality and watching it flourish.
The men? They’re just noise, background music to the real show.
I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the glittering cityscape. New York is beautiful at night, a jungle of ambition and ruthlessness, much like me. It’s a city built on power plays, where only the strongest survive. I belong here. My empire belongs here.
As I gaze out at the horizon, my mind drifts to him—the one man I couldn’t have. Alexander Knight, CEO of Knight Industries, my biggest competitor and the only person who ever dared to reject me. It was a business proposition turned personal, and while the deal itself had been monumental, the real intrigue was in the man himself. He’d stood across from me in that sleek boardroom, his eyes dark and unreadable, and for the first time, I’d felt… something.
He’d turned me down flat, no hesitation, no explanation. Men don’t say no to Priscilla Sinclair, but Alexander Knight had. And that intrigued me more than I cared to admit. He became my obsession—my white whale.
The game with Alexander is different. He doesn’t fall at my feet like the others. He doesn’t chase me, doesn’t send flowers, doesn’t try to impress me. It’s infuriating, maddening. And yet, I can’t stop thinking about him. About the way his eyes had lingered on me for just a fraction too long, betraying the control he so expertly wielded. He wants me, I know he does. He just doesn’t realize it yet.
But he will.
I turn away from the window, slipping into a pair of black silk pajamas as I silently make my way to the closet, retrieving a fresh suit for the man still asleep in my bed. It’s not out of kindness. No, it’s just easier this way. No awkward conversations, no expectations. I leave the suit on the chair by the bed, his shoes lined up neatly beside it. He’ll wake up alone, as they always do. And by the time he’s figured it out, I’ll be halfway across the city, running my empire and leaving him to wonder whether he was just a dream.
I glance at the clock—4:30 a.m. Perfect. I grab my phone, checking for any messages from my assistant. Nothing yet, but I’ll have her get the driver ready. I like to be at the office before the rest of the city wakes up, to survey my kingdom before anyone else dares step foot in it.
As I step out of the bedroom, I look back at him one last time. The light from the window casts a faint glow across his body, but already, I’m forgetting his name. He’s just another man, another notch in the long line of admirers who’ve tried to conquer me, and failed.
The world is filled with men who think they can win me over. But they don’t realize that I’m always the one in control. Always the one who walks away.
I close the door behind me softly, the sound of the latch clicking shut echoing in the quiet apartment. Another night, another game won. But there’s always a bigger game to play.
