Page 36 of Sinful Lies

I didn’t stick around for his reaction, though the murderous tick in his jaw and the way his hands clenched the edge of his desk spoke volumes.

The door clicked shut behind me, and barely a second later, something heavy crashed against it, rattling the frame so hard I half expected it to splinter.

I bit back a laugh and strutted to the elevator, feeling more alive than I had all week.

My speech lasted thirty minutes—a well-rehearsed string of gratitude directed at the socialites hosting the event, and the Mayor of New York for allowing our space to evolve from a mere museum into a dynamic, living art experience (or whatever term the PR department had spun for it).

I thanked my colleagues for their tireless overtime efforts and—begrudgingly—Angelo Lazzio, my boss, for founding Lazzio Exhibits Inc. and building this empire that somehow made art accessible to people from all walks of life.

I also expressed our profound gratitude for this honor, despite last year’s little hiccup—a devastating fire that had momentarily turned the museum into ash and memories.

Officially, the incident had been blamed on an open gas line and an unfortunate cigarette, the perfect cocktail of negligence and bad timing.

Unofficially? It was the handiwork of the enemies of Lazzio’s friend, Alexsei Romaniev.

Angelo’s precious creation hadn’t been the target, just collateral damage in someone else’s feud—a messy inconvenience for the rest of us.

After the fire, we’d shuttered what was left of the museum and had embarked on a rebuilding project. That had cost a jaw-dropping $25 million, and had required over a year of work.

Now, we were finally ready to reopen—well, partially. Some levels were polished enough for visitors, though it would still be a while before we were hosting grand exhibitions under the stars again.

Then came the award—shiny, heavy, and with a fat check for $200K.

I decided to donate it to an underground charity for burn victims.

It felt like the right thing to do.

As the host announced dinner, I made my way off the stage with champagne in hand, cursing myself for choosing my brand-new YSL heels—still unforgiving—while my feet screamed for mercy.

I opted for a black silk siren dress, sleek hair, and red lips, my uniform for such occasions.

When I reached the table, a small crowd began to form around me, bombarding me with questions like I was on a late-night talk show.

“Miss Whitenhouse, you look absolutely stunning.”

“Who is your date tonight, Miss Whitenhouse?”

“Congratulations on your promotion to COO!”

“Can you do an exhibit on wild animals?”

The crowd swelled to the point where I almost felt suffocated.

“Miss Whitenhouse, I’d love to partner with you on?—”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes, plastering on a fake smile that could rival any Hollywood starlet’s.

As they continued to throw questions at me, my eyes drifted from one face to the next until I finally managed to escape to my seat and stuff my annoyance down with caviar and lobster.

The second I sat down, my eyes locked on Lazzio; he was relaxed in his chair, glass of water in hand. His attention was completely on the blonde next to him. She was the perfect fit—blue eyes, freckles, sporty, and just his type.

His gaze was warm and amused as it lingered on her like he was studying a piece of art, that lazy smirk of his never quite fading.

He sipped from his glass, eyes boring into hers as she blushed every time he said something low and leaned in close.

She giggled—God, the sound was unbearable—before lightly swatting his arm.

Then he leaned in again, lips near her ear, and whatever he whispered made her flush with excitement. She downed herchampagne in two quick gulps, a grin tugging at her lips as she placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered something back.

---