Page 81 of Sinful Lies

“God forbid you let me have a second of enjoyment,” I shot back, folding my arms as I turned to the window. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt yourschedule of doom.”

Thomas chuckled softly from the driver’s seat, his eyes briefly meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Aspen really does shine during the snowy months. Have you been here before, Miss Jade?”

Yeah, when I was eleven, with my mom and my sister.

Best Christmas ever.

“Years ago. I almost forgot how magical it looks under all this snow.”

And it really was beautiful.

For a split second, I wished time would freeze—just long enough to soak in the snow, the lights, the postcard-perfect town—before reality came crashing back, dragging me into my usual mess.

“There’s something my father always used to say,” Thomas remarked. “In Aspen, love either wraps you in warmth or leaves you frozen, wishing it had never touched you at all.”

There it was—the classic talk about love, redemption, and tragedy.

It was almost… adorable.

“Well,” I shrugged, pulling my fur coat tighter around me. “I’m expecting neither of those. Just some skiing and a whole lot of ridiculously fattening, oily food to stuff my face for the next three days.”

I hadn’t had fondue in a while, so I was practically buzzing with excitement.

My mouth was watering just thinking about it.

Lazzio shot me a look.

He put his phone back in his pocket and leaned back in his seat.

“I doubt love could ever find its way into your cold heart, Miss Whitenhouse,” he whispered.

The words dripped from his lips, sweet butdeadly.

I smiled.

He wasn’t wrong.

“That’s what makes us equals, Lazzio. Only a heart as frozen as mine could recognize how hollow yours really is.”

“Your family and the other guests are waiting, Mr. Lazzio,” a butler greeted us, opening the mansion door.

With a practiced smile, he took our coats and handed us champagne.

I sipped mine, the bubbles tickling my throat, while Lazzio gave a brief nod, checking to see if I was following before striding through the grand entrance. Above, a massive chandelier hung like a jewel, casting a soft glow.

The hallways were lined with thick carpets and taxidermied animals—deer, bears, boars. Guess James Greg had a thing for hunting.

After what had felt like an eternity of over-the-top decor, two butlers opened the door to a dining room that could swallow a small village.

A long table, draped in a white cloth worth more than my rent, was adorned with an overabundance of flowers and wood decor. The spread was a feast—shrimp salad, caviar with crème fraîche, turkey with stuffing, baked and mashed potatoes, pumpkin soup, lobster mac & cheese, and foie gras. And, of course, gnocchi, arrabbiata pasta, and lasagna.

This wasn’t a dinner; it was a spectacle.

Looking at all of it, I’d almost believed I’d died and gone to heaven.

Then I remembered—hell, I’d probably never make it that far.

“Angelo, you’re here, finally!” Monica Lazzio exclaimed. His mama practically bounced in her seat, waving him over like a dog begging for attention.

---