Page 29 of Made for Sinners

And the worst part? It was working.

I snatched the phone back up, my fingers flying across the keyboard.

Me:Is this just your way of confessing a fetish for overpriced lingerie?

The typing bubble appeared again, and I braced myself for whatever smug response he was about to unleash.

Dante:Overpriced? Princess, you’re underselling yourself. I’d spend twice that just to catch a glimpse of you in it.

My breath hitched, my lips parting as I read the message over again, the weight of his words sending a shiver down my spine. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore—the possessiveness, the way he spoke like I already belonged to him.

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to throw the phone across the car and scream. But instead, I found myself typing back, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Me:Do I get to see the receipts for that, or do I just have to take your word for it?

His response came almost immediately.

Dante:You’ll see it when you try it on.

I stared at the screen, my heart racing as the implications of his words sank in. He wasn’t just playing games anymore; he was setting the rules, reminding me that no matter how much I pushed back, he was always three steps ahead.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of my bedroom, casting golden streaks across the walls. I stretched out on the chaise by the window, a half-empty glass of rosé balanced precariously on the edge of the side table. The summer warmth was fading fast, and I was determined to soak up every last bit of it before fall arrived and turned everything gray and cold—inside and out.

Adrianna’s honeymoon photos were still open on my phone, the screen dimming slightly as I stared at the last picture she’d sent. She and Michael were on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean, the kind of place where the water was so blue it didn’t look real. Her smile was radiant, her hair tousled by the sea breeze, and Michael’s hand rested possessively on her waist.

Despite everything, she looked happy. Genuinely happy.

And I hated that I couldn’t bring myself to feel the same for her. But knowing myself better than anyone I knew that this pesky emotion stirring in my chest was jealousy.

I tossed the phone onto the cushion beside me, rubbing at the ache in my chest that had been there since the wedding. The memory of Dante’s hand gripping my arm, his dark eyes burning with jealousy and something else I couldn’t name, lingered like a bruise that refused to fade.

He’d broken my heart that night.

Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

The bastard had stormed into my life like a hurricane, tearing through everything I thought I knew about myself, about my family, about loyalty. And now, he was everywhere. In my thoughts, in my phone, in the goddamn photo albums that had taken over my desk.

I glanced at the stack of leather-bound albums sitting in the corner of the room, their presence a constant reminder of the impossible task he’d dumped in my lap. Two more had shown up this morning, delivered by the same silent courier who refused to make eye contact with me. I’d nearly tripped over the box on my way out to grab coffee, cursing Dante’s name under my breath as I dragged it inside.

The albums were mocking me, their pristine covers practically daring me to keep going. I’d made it through one and a half so far, and all I had to show for it was a headache and a vague sense of déjà vu. Every face blurred together after a while—sharp suits, cold smiles, and eyes that hinted at secrets I didn’t want to uncover.

I’d briefly considered outsourcing the task, Googling private investigators in the area and scrolling through their websites while sipping my morning coffee. But the more I read, the more paranoid I became. Their privacy clauses weren’t nearly as ironclad as I wanted, and the last thing I needed was some nosy PI digging too deep and stumbling onto something that could make this whole situation even worse.

So, here I was. Alone. Staring at albums filled with faces I didn’t recognize, trying to solve a mystery I wasn’t even sure I wanted the answer to.

With a sigh, I pushed myself off the chaise and padded over to the desk, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. The latest album sat on top of the stack, its leather cover smooth and cool under my fingertips. I flipped it open, the scent of old paper and faint cologne wafting up as I turned the pages.

Nothing.

Another page.

Still nothing.

I groaned, leaning back in the chair and rubbing my temples. This was pointless. I decided to sit by the pool instead.

I grabbed my glass of rosé and slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses, the kind that screamedI’m avoiding responsibility but doing it fabulously.The pool was quiet this time of day, the water shimmering like liquid glass under the sun. It was one of the few perks of living in this gilded cage of a house—when my brothers weren’t around to ruin it, at least.

I stretched out on a lounger, letting the warmth seep into my skin. The rosé was still chilled, the condensation dripping down the stem of the glass as I took a slow sip. For a moment, I let myself pretend that this was normal. That I wasn’t flipping through albums of potential criminals in my spare time. That I wasn’t engaged—forced—to marry the most infuriating man I’d ever met. That my life wasn’t spiraling out of control like a car with cut brakes.

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