Page 45 of Sinful Lies

The Present

Chapter

Ten

“I hate men who are afraid of women’s strength.”

?Anaïs Nin

Jade

30 years old

Present time

“I would kill for you, Jade. Just give me one fucking chance. Justone, and I swear I’ll turn your world so upside down you’d never want to let me go.”

I laughed, sipping my margarita, the salted rim a welcome distraction. “Manuel, for the last time—I’m not into you.”

“That’s because we haven’t fucked yet,guapa. Once we do, I promise you’ll change your mind.”

Manuel Ruiz was every indulgence I secretly admired in men: strong, capable with his hands, calloused palms from hard labor, masculine, tall, and that annoyingly sweet smile that could charm anyone… except me.

He had a mouth that spewed filth and eyes that undressed, yet beneath all the bravado, Manuel was a decent man. Gentle, even.

He never crossed a line, never touched me without consent, never hurled threats or wielded manipulation for my attention—a standard shockingly high in the grimy circles of New York’s elite.

But as much as I appreciated him, I didn’t want him.

At least not tonight.

I just wanted to dance and relaxalone.

Turning him down again felt as exhausting as the last dozen times.

“I’m not giving up,” he called over his shoulder, his determination thick enough to draw a smirk.

I raised my glass and took another sip of my margarita, letting the sweet tang coat my tongue. My eyes scanned the club, darting past the strobing lights and murmuring patrons.

It was a regular Sunday night for me, a much-needed exhale after yet another wildly successful exhibition Friday night. The New York Times had declared it “the finest display of art and glory.” As much as the praise had inflated my ego, the constant buzzing of attention left a strain that only this club,The Diamond, could soothe.

Yeah,thatclub—the one where I sent some Aussie guy to the ER for trying to get handsy, then got a free ride in the back of a cop car. Good times.

Owned by none other than Leonardo Vittori, it wasn’t just a sanctuary; it was an empire. And tonight, like every Sunday for the past year, I found myself here, savoring the energy, the ambiance, and my carefully curated escape from the world.

That was my Sunday routine.

Wake up well past noon, order takeout—a chicken Caesar salad with a side of fries—then draw myself a long, steamingbath while cracking open a bottle of my favorite red wine to get my blood primed for the night ahead.

Getting ready was a ritual in itself. My wardrobe revolved around what one might call outrageous excuses for dresses, but for me, they were my uniform. Short, scandalously tight numbers—sometimes sparkly, sometimes black, sometimes a riot of color—with necklines daring enough to make anyone blush.

My hair would be my final message: sleek and straight if I was hunting for a fling, or swept into an updo or ponytail if I was simply out to dance and drink the night away.

Tonight, I chose fun over lust.

I had slipped into a pearl-embroidered Balmain dress, a masterpiece of shimmering elegance that clung to me like a second skin. My hair had gone up into a perfectly imperfect messy bun, and I’d painted my lips a deep, provocative red.

The message was clear:Not tonight, boys.

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