Page 67 of Sinful Lies

The makeup she usually wielded like a weapon was muted, almost bare, though her lips still held that faint red stain that captured my attention every damn time.

Her Louboutins clicked against the floor, but even that sound felt different, less sharp, less her. And then there were her eyes—dull, tired, refusing to meet mine, not even once.

This wasn’t my Jade.

At least, not the Jade I knew, and I hated that it unsettled me more than it should.

“Your lawyers are already in the crowd,” Grace said, handing Jade a bottle of water. “When you speak, remember to glance at them from time to time. They’ve prepared your statement and are already seated at the table on stage.”

Jade groaned, clearly annoyed. “I didn’t expect to be on TV today. I would’ve put more effort into my makeup.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Someone just died, Satan. Can you at least act like you care for the cameras?”

Jade crossed her arms. “You’re not the one who’s gonna have millions of people judging the way you look, oldie.”

I ignored their bickering and motioned for Jade to go in first.

She did, and—fuck, no.

Her dress dipped scandalously low in the back, revealing the damn dragon tattoo that never failed to ruin my focus. Vibrant reds and blues stretched across her skin, daring anyone to look, and making it impossible not to. It wasn’t just a tattoo—it was a deliberate choice to set the world on fire, one glance at a time.

I caught her wrist, pulling her back hard enough to make her stumble.

“Go put on a damn jacket. You’re not walking in there like that—unless you’re trying to convince people we run a porn studio.”

Jade ripped her arm from my grip. “I don’t have time to run back to my office and play dress-up.”

I stepped closer. “We’re about to give a statement on a fucking suicide, Miss Whitenhouse. We need to look like we’re mourning, not like you’re trying to seduce the viewers.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Give me yours then.”

I barked out a cold, humorless laugh. “Over my dead body.”

She leaned in, her voice a low hiss as a couple of journalists walked by.

“Come on,” she whispered. “They’ll think you were just comforting me after the news. My poor friend Pauline shot herself, and here you are, being the caring boss.”

As much as it made my blood boil, she was right.

The vultures waiting in the room just steps away were here for one thing only: to pin the blame on someone, and dig up a juicy story. Any slip-up, any crack in our facade, and they’d feast on it, twisting it to smear Lazzio Entertainment Group’s image into the ground.

I sighed, shrugging off my blazer and tossing it into her hands. “Don’t get any ideas. This doesn’t mean shit.”

Jade smirked as she slipped it on, the oversized fit swallowing her frame. “Of course not,” she muttered, smoothing the sleeves. “We wouldn’t want anyone thinking Angelo Lazzio actually has a heart.”

I shoved the door open and stepped into the media room, ignoring her completely.

The flash of cameras hit us instantly, the sound of murmured questions buzzing like a swarm of angry bees.

I felt her step in beside me, her expression instantly shifting to a mask of sorrowful composure as the eyes of the world locked onto us.

Showtime, baby.

“David McLoad from CNN,” announced a short, chubby man with funky glasses as he grabbed the mic. “Pauline Dupont was one of the most talented actresses in your Broadway productions. How could you not have known she was struggling mentally, Mr. Lazzio?”

“Thank you for your question, Mr. McLoad,” I said, letting my gaze sweep across the room, taking in all the journalists with their mics and cameras trained on us.

He nodded.

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