Page 102 of Sinful Lies

“You hate how much it’s gotten under your skin. Admit it, you can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I hate you, Sofiya.”

“No, Jadie. You hate how much you want Angelo Lazzio to mean it.”

I walked through the museum’s quiet halls, heels clicking against polished floors, heading for my office. After days of wallowing, it was time to reclaim my dignity—or at least fake it convincingly.

I showered, then slipped into my finest—an emerald Jacquemus dress with a plunging V-neck, sheer sleeves, and a daring slit up my right leg. My Kate Louboutins added power, and my black serpent Bvlgari necklace, earned by securing 30 percent of Lazzio Exhibits, gleamed at my throat.

Work was my anchor, grounding me when everything else felt like chaos.

With the exhibition a day away, nothing less than perfection would do—every detail had to screamsuccess.

Each floor stood as a testament to battlefields and centuries of war. The exhibits were precise, flawlessly curated. I stalked through them, hunting for a flaw, something to tear apart. But, to my annoyance, there was nothing.

The artifacts gleamed under expertly angled lights, the arrangements immaculate.

Everything was infuriatingly flawless.

I sighed, frustration bubbling.

Perfection shouldn’t bother me—but today, it did.

Pivoting, I headed to the café in the restaurant wing. It was closed to the public, but a few staff lingered. The moment I walked in, the room fell into silence.

It wasn’t the usual awe-filled quiet—it hummed with curiosity.

Eyes darted away the second I glanced their way, but whispers continued, buzzing in the background.

My jaw tightened.

I passed them, pretending not to notice, and ordered my caramel macchiato with extra sugar.

Settling into one of the overpriced couches, I wrapped my fingers around the warm cup.

Normally, I thrived on this—on the way people shrank under my gaze, fumbling over their words. But today? It grated.

Every glance, every smirk, every murmur felt like it was about me.

“I can’t believe you have the audacity to show your face here today.”

I turned slowly, raising an eyebrow as Grace glared at me, her venom darker than ever. Arms crossed, face crimson, eyes burning with pure fury.

“What do you want, oldie?”

“For you to burn in hell.”

Her words hit like a slap, but she didn’t stick around to see the damage. Spinning on her heel, she left me standing there, stunned.

In all the years of fake smiles and petty jabs, this wasn’t her. She wasn’t blunt—she was a snake. But today? She went straight for the throat.

I set my coffee down, blood simmering, and stalked after her.

“What the hell is your problem today?”

Grace stayed silent, tapping the elevator button with manic precision.

When the doors slid open, she stepped in, stabbing Lazzio’s floor number.

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