Page 71 of Sinful Lies

Jade

“I’ve never looked worse in my life, Sofiya. I’msoembarrassed,” I groaned, popping another hummus-dipped chip into my mouth. “My reputation is ruined! People know me for my bold fashion sense, and on that stage? I looked like a poor homeless woman who wandered off to the food bank but somehow ended up on live TV instead.”

The press statement about Pauline Dupont’s suicide had been two weeks ago, yet the memory still haunted me—mainly how absolutely wrecked I’d looked on TV.

Turns out, without concealer, I look like I’m on my third round of antidepressants, chasing it with a bottle of Jack.

Maybe that was my real talent: looking like a walking mental breakdown.

Sofiya laughed on the other end of the line. “You looked fine, Jadie, I swear. Just a little tired,” she reassured me, her daughter Joy’s giggles echoing in the background. “Wait—Joy, put that down! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Sofiya Volkov was my best friend—the only person I ever let close enough to glimpse the real me, or at least as much as I allowed.

We had used to work together when she’d been an art contractor at Lazzio Exhibits Inc., back when she’d moved to New York a few years ago. That was, until her ex—an insanely hot, but maddeningly possessive Russian mobster—had found her, begged for forgiveness, and proposed right there on his knees.

How’d they meet? Let’s just say it was too sinful to recount.

Sofiya always claimed it was a string of sinful promises that had pulled them together.

Mikhaïl Volkov.

I couldn’t help but hate the man a little—he’d stolen her away, turning our daily hangouts into a long-distance friendship I’m terrible at, but am doing my best to keep alive.

They’d had their first child, Joy, four years ago, and now Sofiya was pregnantagain—with a boy this time. Volkov chaining her to Moscow all over again only made me curse him harder. We could have been tearing up New York City like we’d used to, but no, he had her playing housewife.

Still, she was disgustingly happy, and I couldn’t help but grin like an idiot every time we caught up over the phone or on Skype. I missed her like hell. They only make it to New York a few times a year, and it was never enough.

I popped another chip into my mouth, half listening as Sofiya scolded her little devil, who was proudly yelling, “Papa lets me dowhateverI want!”

“Yeah? Keep talking, and your papa’s getting punished with you,” Sofiya shot back. “And trust me, he won’t like the kind ofpunishmentI have in mind.”

I snorted. “He deserves it for knocking you up again. That’s for sure.”

She laughed. “Shut up.”

From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Grace sprinting through the entry lounge, clutching two white bags sporting a logo I knew all too well.Bagels & Jo.

I guess murder works up an appetite.

“Uh, sweetie, I gotta go,” I said, munching on one last chip before standing and tossing the rest into a nearby bin. “Time to annoy Lazzio for a bit.”

I headed toward the elevator, hitting the button for his office floor.

Sofiya sighed dramatically. “Poor guy. You were put on this earth solely to make his life a living hell, weren’t you?”

I chuckled. “Exactly. Love you. Talk soon!”

Hanging up, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, inspecting every detail. No food between my teeth. The dress—a brazen red with dramatic, poofy sleeves and a plunging V-neck—was sinful, framing my gold butterfly necklace.

I smoothed down my hair, letting the sleek black strands fall like a curtain of midnight, my lips painted the same bold red as my dress.

This was how I should’ve looked on TV—a red goddess draped in power and sin, wearing the metaphorical blood of my boss’s latest kill like a badge of honor.

The click of my heels echoed against the polished tiles as I walked.

Passing Grace’s desk, I caught her gaze for a split second. With her glasses—straight out of a wicked fairy godmother costume fromShrek—she shot me a disapproving once-over, hereyes dragging from the top of my head to the tips of my heels, punctuated by a shake of her head.

As I walked past, I shot her a wink, catching her barely audible mutter: “The devil really does wear Prada, huh?”

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