Page 27 of Sinful Lies

She gestured lazily at me, head to toe. “C’mon, that outfit? It’s a reasonable assumption.”

I glanced down at my ruinedDolce & Gabbanadress, now smeared with champagne, glass dust, and probably Aussie’s ego.

“Why areyouhere?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Drug dealing.”

Of course.

The dark spots on her cheeks, the too-sharp cheekbones, and the jittery energy practically screamed it. The telltale signs of crack addiction were all over her.

“Could’ve guessed.”

She barked out another laugh. “Alright, I like you. Name’s Cheryl. You?”

“Not in the mood for bonding, Cheryl.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” She stretched. “You’re not gettin’ out of here anytime soon, princess. Might as well chat.”

That word again—princess.

My jaw tightened.

I didn’t respond, letting the silence stretch between us as my eyes darted around the police station.

The place looked exactly how you’d imagine a police station at midnight—dingy walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the smell of burnt coffee mixed with crimes.

After smashing Aussie’s head in, I’d done the obvious thing: I took off my heels and ran.

I didn’t even grab my bag, just bolted out of the club with adrenaline.

But apparently, you can’t outrun karma—or New York cops.

They picked me up a few blocks away, their sirens splitting the night.

I didn’t fight them. What would be the point?

Instead, I played the birthday card, throwing in a promise to cooperate if they skipped the handcuffs. They actually went for it—maybe out of pity, or maybe because they wanted to see how ridiculous I looked climbing into the back of their cruiser in a champagne-soaked dress.

Spoiler alert: it was ridiculous.

At the station, they asked if I wanted a lawyer.

I shook my head, but my eyes drifted to the phone.

I needed to call someone, even though the idea left a bitter taste in my mouth.

They waved the phone toward me and I dialed the only person who could untangle the mess I’d gotten myself into.

My stomach churned the entire time.

Now, hours later—or maybe just minutes that felt like hours—I waited.

Sighing, I let my feet swing idly beneath the bench once again.

The background noise of the station barely registered until it stopped. A whistle—or something like it—cut out mid-note, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind.

I tilted my head, curiosity getting the better of me.

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