Page 11 of Sinful Lies

A slow smile crept across my face. “They haven’t met me yet.”

I was the real evil here.

The secretary’s frown deepened, accentuating the lines carved into her forehead.

“You need an appointment to meet Mr. Lazzio,” she said, her voice clipped, like I was wasting precious air just by standing there. “And it’s Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t you be with your family instead of showing up here unannounced?”

I tapped my heel against the marble floor, annoyed.

Grace—the name pinned neatly to her chest in gold—sat stiffly at her desk, her pen clicking against the wood in a maddening rhythm as her eyes bore into me.

Getting this far hadn’t been easy.

When I first approached the museum, a wall of muscle in a navy-blue coat and cap had blocked the doors. The security guard looked like he benched SUVs for fun, and he wasn’t budging.

“It’s after hours,” he said, his voice flat. “Museum’s closed. Come back another day.”

Desperation clawed at me.

Okay, Jade. You can do this!

I gave him my best wide-eyed look and launched into the performance of my life.

“But I have a job interview with the manager for the curator position! If I don’t get this job, I’ll be homeless! I’ll have to… resort to prostitution, leave the path of God—” My voice cracked, and I let a few fake tears spill. “And it’ll all beyourfault! On Judgment Day, you’ll have to answer for this. My failures will beyour sins.”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

I wasn’t done. “It’s Christmas Eve! Don’t you believe in miracles? In second chances? Can’t you let me have this one tiny win?”

For a moment he had just stared, his face unreadable.

Then he’d sighed, stepping aside with a grudging shake of his head. “Fine. Go. But hurry up before I change my mind.”

I’d lit up like a Christmas tree, clapping my hands in exaggerated joy.

“You won’t, I promise!” I’d chirped, practically skipping past him.

Now, standing in front ofMiss Judgmental’s desk, I felt my patience wearing thin.

“Mr. Lazzio doesn’t meet with people without appointments,” she said, her voice colder than the December air outside. “You should’ve called ahead.”

I leaned in slightly, dropping my tone to something softer. “Grace, it’s Christmas Eve. I’m not asking for much, just a chance to talk to him. A few minutes?—”

“No,” she cut me off, her pen clicking again, louder this time. “This isn’t happening.”

My smile froze, and I let out a slow breath.

Fine. She wanted to play hardball? I could play too.

“Listen oldie,” I said, meeting her eyes, “Christmas is about compassion. About opening doors, not closing them. You might not believe in miracles, but I do. And if I have to sit here all night to make one happen, I fucking will.”

She stared at me, unblinking, as if trying to decide if I was bold, foolish, or both.

Then, with a long-suffering sigh, she picked up the phone.

“Wait here,” she said, her voice tight.

I smiled sweetly, settling into the chair across from her. “Thank you. I knew you’d see reason.”

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