Page 82 of Sinful Lies

The room fell silent, all eyes on us.

“Angelo, Jade,” James Greg nodded, lifting his glass in a lazy toast. “Welcome. Please, take a seat and enjoy the food after your long flight.”

Lazzio’s hatred for him made perfect sense now. Greg was dripping with fake kindness, passive-aggressive enough to make evenmeuncomfortable.

I followed Lazzio and slid into the empty chair beside him.

Scarlett Harper, Lazzio’s cousin and international pop star, sat next to me. The woman behindHate the Way I Live—one of my favorite songs ever.

Her eyes were empty, her fiery red hair as untouchable as ever.

I barely glanced at her, feeling the chill rolling off her, thick enough to freeze the air around us. Not that I blamed her. Fame’s a bitch, especially when you’re stuck in a room full of people who call you family, yet stab you in the back the second you turn.

But I wasn’t here for her.

I was here because, like some other people in this room, I wanted to see Angelo Lazzio fall. And if there was anything to learn from watching a man burn, I was ready to take notes.

I took another sip of champagne, watching as his mother’s gaze sharpened on Spencer Greg, one of James’ daughters.

“What about your husband, Spencer?” Monica asked, feigning interest, though there was a sharp edge to her tone—like she was probing for something to use.

“Don’t know,” Spencer replied, her voice cool. “Probably off avoiding this dinner.”

“This dinner, or just… you?” her twin sister, Sarah, asked with a smirk.

Laughter rippled around the table.

I leaned back in my chair, my gaze flicking between the twins.

They didn’t look like twins—not even close. One had sleek blonde hair, the other fiery copper. Their features were similar, but hardly identical.

Memories flashed in my mind—the names of Lazzio’s lovers.

Right, he’d slept with both of them.

I downed my champagne in one go.

The taste hit me strangely, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

Lazzio caught my eye. His expression was unreadable, detached, but I saw that flicker of amusement before he turned back to the conversation.Asshole.

The dinner dragged on, full of dark glances and even darker remarks.

To my surprise, I was the only one actually eating—everyone else was too busy drinking and pretending to be civil.

After dessert, the men retreated to the library for cigars, while the women slithered off to the sitting room to gossip.

Exhausted despite the plane nap, I excused myself with a fake smile, said goodnight to the ladies, and started hunting for a butler to escort me to my room.

It took nearly ten minutes to find one—standing frozen like a statue in this absurd mansion.

The man straightened. “Miss Whitenhouse, may I help?”

“Yes, I need to get to my room,” I said. “The night’s not getting any younger, trust me.”

He gestured for me to follow.

After what felt like forever walking down a hallway of 17th-century portraits—kings, queens, and a lot of frilly collars—we stopped in front of an elevator.

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