Page 43 of Sinful Lies

I stood there like an idiot, hands trembling, because deep down, I knew he was right.

The door closed behind me before I gracefully slipped into his chair, the leather creaking under my weight as I leaned forward, fingers already dancing over his ridiculously expensive computer. The one he’d had to buy last year after the old onemysteriouslyended up in pieces against the wall.

I was still absolutely furious. Still fuming.

I should’ve just followed him, dragged him into some dark corner, and chopped his head off as the best Christmas present I’d ever give myself.

But no. Instead, his words—those perfectly timed insults—had done exactly what they were supposed to.

They had dug in deep. Poked around in all the places I’d kept hidden.

Places I thought were safely locked away, but now? Not so much.

And honestly? It had worked.

Ithadrefocusedme.

Reminded me why I was here in the first place.

Because I needed something from his files. Something important. Something called The Cyrus Project.

So, the head-chopping would have to wait for now.

Over the years, I’d learned everything there was to know about New York’s elites.

Specifically the big three: the Gregs, the Lazzios, and the Harpers.

The untouchables.The ones who thought they could get away with anything.

I’d spent the last five years perfecting the art of surveillance.

Every public event, every secret meeting, every dinner I had managed to crash—hell, I’d even showed up at their weddings, funerals,andengagementand divorce parties. Sunday mornings at church, country clubs, galas, clubs—you name it, I had been there. And no one had noticed. No one ever did. But I saw it all.

I knew everything. Every little secret they thought they’d buried.

I had them all mapped out, connected by red strings on a board—affairs, betrayals, stolen inheritances, secret bankruptcies. Their addictions to drugs, gambling, and of course, power. The whispers of blackmail schemes, quiet bribes, and messy cover-ups painted their twisted world like a masterpiece of sin.

Their vices were my Bible.

I had it all under control.

And I’d played my role perfectly.

They never suspected a thing. They thought I was just a pretty young woman with too much confidence. So they’d talked to me. They had let their guard down. Shared their dirty secrets, their twisted little victories, all the gossip that could bring them down.

And I had soaked it all up.

Because in those moments, I’d held the power.

But there was still one thing missing.

One piece of the puzzle that would make everything fall into place.

And that piece? It had a name: The Cyrus Project.

A few months ago, I’d overheard Angelo Lazzio and his father at one of our exhibition nights. They were talking about Jonathan Cyrus, and how he was still seething over the fact that one of his precious projects had gotten ruined.

That conversation? It had sparked my curiosity.

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