Page 49 of Sinful Lies

Jade

As I brought the bag closer, I eyed its deep emerald finish, tilting it under the light like I was inspecting a diamond and not a purse priced at the cost of a small kitchen remodel.

Chanel or not, I knew the difference between indulgence and outright robbery, and this? This was criminal.

Kelly, the sly fox of retail, read my hesitation like a well-worn script. Her perfectly styled gray hair bobbed as she handed me a glass of champagne, her weapon of choice.

“This bag looks exquisite on you, Miss Whitenhouse. The color is simplydivine.”

Of course, she played the emerald card. My Achilles’ heel.

Kelly had me pegged from the first day I’d strolled into this shop four years ago.

Since then, I’d probably funded her vacations, Christmas bonuses, and the “Best Salesperson of the Year” plaque that undoubtedly hung in the back room. And yet, like a moth to a flame—or more accurately, a bag addict to overpriced leather—I kept coming back.

Retail therapy wasstilltherapy, right?

Who needed a shrink when a Prada tote or a Givenchy clutch could fix your bad mood for at least 48 hours?

Was it shallow? Maybe.

Should I care? Probably.

Did I? Absolutely not.

I sighed, sliding my black card out of my wallet. “I’ll take it.”

Kelly’s smile stretched wider than the Grand Canyon as she clapped her hands in delight, ushering me to the register like she’d just won a jackpot.

I took another sip of champagne, letting the fizzy sweetness drown out the nagging voice in my head reminding me I’d just dropped 9K on a bag that would likely end up collecting dust next to last month’s retail regret.

But hey, at least I’d have something pretty to carry my existential dread in.

“I loved your exhibition last Friday—Black and White. The pictures of Werner Bischof and Thomaz Farkas were absolutely stunning. Railways have never looked so alive; I just had to see them in person. Oh, and you looked divine in your Valentino dress. Truly a piece of art yourself, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest.

Compliments like that made the endless stress worth it, even if just for a moment.

Being COO was no stroll through luxury. Juggling exhibitions every week to match Angelo Lazzio’s relentlessperfectionism wasn’t just exhausting—it was soul-draining. Each new showcase demanded scouring the globe for rare, breathtaking pieces, leaving me creatively hollow by the time the museum’s doors reopened.

With the museum closed one week a month, I had to produce three major exhibitions every four weeks, a rhythm designed to drain anyone not fueled by caffeine and sheer spite.

So yes, I earned every single one of my millions and every indulgent penny spent on couture dresses, high heels, and tiny bags that could barely hold a credit card, let alone my unraveling sanity.

“I’m so pleased to hear that, Kelly. You know I trust your taste implicitly. You’ve never let me down,” I said with a wink.

My week was carved out like clockwork: Sundays and Mondays off, Tuesdays and Wednesdays devoured by endless work, Thursdays reserved for exhibition rehearsals, Fridays set ablaze by exhibition night, and Saturdays split between dissecting every detail in staff meetings.

It was a relentless grind that demanded nothing less than perfection.

After last night’s circus—the four margaritas that left me with a skull-splitting headache, Manuel’s lifeless body I had to step over on my way out of the club, and of course, Angelo Lazzio and his insufferableeverything—I needed a hard reset.

Today was my escape hatch: buying things I didn’t need, indulging at my favorite restaurant like calories were a myth, and scrubbing my brain clean of any trace of my boss.

That man, with his compulsive need to micromanage every molecule of my existence—and the one I had a personal vendetta against? Not today.

Today was about me, my credit card, and the unshakable thrill of rebellion.

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