Page 39 of Sinful Lies

“It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”

?André Gide

Jade

29 years old

A year ago

“What do you want now, Satan? Haven’t you annoyed me enough for one day?”

I perched myself on Grace’s desk, crossing my legs as I picked up the picture frame she kept proudly displayed—her grinning husband and their army of children.

Honestly, I’d never seen any of them in real life.

The man never set foot in this office, and her kids were apparently too mythical to exist outside holiday cards. Sometimes I wondered if this picture wasn’t just some stock photo she’d picked up to fit the mold of a sweet old grandma still working because she couldn’t sit still. Blah blah,barf.

“What are you even doing here, oldie? It’s Christmas Eve, and it’s past three. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, grilling your turkey or knitting socks for the grandkids you swear aren’t imaginary?”

She snatched the picture out of my hands before she carefully put it back on the desk, dusting it like I’d somehow smudged its sacred aura.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I have things to finish up before the holiday. Unlike some people, I don’t run around bothering coworkers like a stray cat.”

“Meow,” I said dryly, sliding off her desk. “Just saying, Grace—your turkey’s going to end up drier thanyou. And I’d hate for your perfect little family to choke on that.”

Her scowl deepened, the kind of look that could curdle eggnog.

I smirked, tossing her a casual wave as I strutted off.

But not before I heard her mutter under her breath, “At least I have a family.”

I froze for half a second.

At least I have a family.

Something in my chest tightened—hard, ugly, and rough, like barbed wire wrapping itself around my ribs.

I took a shaky breath, forcing myself not to go there.

Not to think aboutthem.

About the kinds of memories that could sneak up on you when you least expected it, dragging you underwater and drowning you in a tide you couldn’t fight.

I swallowed hard, steadying myself, and made my way to Lazzio’s office.

Barging in without knocking was second nature by now—my default. Maybe because it felt easier to shatter his silence than to sit in my own.

He was at the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in that velvety Italian of his. Snow dusted the city skyline outside, and for a moment, I let myself drink in the sight of him: tall, broad shoulders, the darkest of hair, and utterly oblivious to my presence.

His suit caught my attention—light beige.

It was so … uncharacteristic.

Angelo Lazzio, the self-crowned king of brooding darkness, suddenly giving off espresso at a Tuscan villa vibes?Interesting.

I slammed the door shut behind me, loudly enough to make my point.

The point being: I’m here to annoy you, deal with it.

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