Page 183 of Sinful Lies

Yoga pants and a hoodie had seemed appropriate for someone who was running away once again.

My job in New York? Over. Done. Finished.

By the time the city woke up from its champagne-soaked haze, they’d be feasting on the juiciest scandal of the year. Angelo Lazzio, the untouchable Don Juan, completely exposed.

And all thanks to me.

The one he trusted. The one heloved.

A bitter, pathetic sob broke free as I sat down on my bed, pressing my palms against my face like it could hold me together.

Years of planning, plotting, promising myself this moment would feel good, and yet here I was.

Empty. Guilty. Hating him, hating myself, hating everything.

But I’d done it. I’d done what I said I would.

So why did it feel like I was the one who’d been destroyed?

I forced myself to get up, shut off the lights, and head to my secret room.

Six years of my life stared back at me: a mess of files, photos, and every shred of evidence I’d spent so long collecting.

All I wanted to do was set it on fire and watch the flames erase me, him, and every terrible decision in between.

My eyes landed on a picture on the ground, and the second I saw it, my heart twisted like someone had taken a knife and just… twisted it.

I dropped to my knees, my hands shaking—probably from the sudden rush of guilt, probably from the realization that this was the last thing I’d needed to see.

It was a photo of Stella and me.

God, we must’ve been so young—maybe ten and five—laughing like idiots, wearing swimsuits that were too bright for anyone’s eyes. That was before the world had turned ugly, back when I’d thought we’d always be okay, that I could always protect her.

I pressed the photo to my chest, my breath stuttering in my throat.

Then I carefully set the picture down.

My fingers moved to my necklace, the gold chain catching, trembling under my touch. Two little butterflies dangled there—one for my father, the man who had once seemed untouchable. The other for Stella, the little girl who had thought I could do no wrong.

My life—my whole existence—had been reduced to a couple of charms and a picture I couldn’t even look at without falling apart.

“I did it, Stella,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. “And I’m sorry. I… I’m sorry I fell in love with the man who took you from me.”

My eyes closed, and the tears came—hot and choking.

“I hope you can forgive me.”

I got up and dusted off my pants, just as three rough knocks echoed through my apartment.

It must be Mr. Jones, my concierge, coming up to help with the suitcases.

Running away had been part of the plan, a one-way ticket to Edinburgh in my bag, and zero clue what came next.

Scotland—of all places.

I didn’t know a soul there, hadn’t even thought about the country before. But it was far enough away, and no one would think to look for me there. Not Angelo. Not his family. Not the journalists, nor his partners who’d want my head on a platter by sunrise.

I sighed, turning off the lights, the darkness swallowing up the life I was leaving behind.

---