Page 40 of Sinfully Yours

Ava stiffens beside me.

I bite back the urge to tell Vanessa to rot in hell, though the thought is damn near poetic. "Not tonight, Vanessa."

She smiles, all teeth. "You can't keep it buried forever, Liam."

Instead of responding, I place a steady hand on Ava's back and guide her away. I don't say a word, don't glance back, don't let the knots in my shoulders ease until Vanessa is completely out of sight.

Ava doesn't say anything either.

Not until we're out on the balcony, the cool night air pressing against our skin.

Then, finally, she turns to me. "What was that about?"

I drag in a slow breath, fingers raking absently through my hair. "Ignore her. She's playing games."

Ava shifts her weight, arms folding tight against her chest, her eyes cutting right through me. "Yeah? Then why did you look guilty?"

How do I tell her that she's much, much better off not knowing? That people like Vanessa Chase don't play around for fun? "Let it go, Bennett."

She angles her head, considering. "No."

"Should've guessed." I meet her stare head-on, something tightening in my chest, my pulse kicking just a little faster.

Because the truth is… I'm hiding plenty.

Ava watches me from across the balcony, her gaze unwavering, threaded with expectation. She's waiting for an answer I can't give.

I tip my head back, drawing in a slow breath, letting the crisp night air settle against my skin. Beyond her, the city stretches wide and glittering, the skyline blurred at the edges, softened by the distant glow of streetlights. Inside, the gala gleams—gold chandeliers, crystal reflections, a world built on polish and performance. Out here, the night feels looser, untamed, the kind of quiet that pries things open.

Ava watches me closely, arms crossed, posture taut with barely restrained frustration. "Well?"

I could lie.

It would be easy. A few well-placed words, a smirk, a casual deflection—she'd roll her eyes and mutter about how impossible I am, and we'd move on.

But the problem is, I don't want to lie to her.

I erase every flicker of emotion, relaxing my jaw, easing the tightness from my brow, letting my lips settle into an even, unaffected line. Then, without hurry, I shift my gaze toward the entrance. "We should go."

Ava's lips press together. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, the way she's weighing whether or not to push this.

She doesn't. Instead, she scowls and brushes past me, heading back inside without another word.

With a resigned sigh, I follow.

We move through the gallery like our conversation wasn't a minefield, like Vanessa's words aren't still clinging to the air between us. Ava walks ahead, heels clicking against the marble, shoulders set, her expression smooth, controlled.

Relief doesn't come.

I know this silence, the way she holds herself too carefully, the way she doesn't look at me. She's turning things over in her head, waiting for the right moment to strike. And when she does, it won't be gentle.

And I have no doubt that when she finally asks again, it won't be a question—it'll be a demand.

The car ride stretches in silence—not easy, not strained, just something suspended in the air between us, waiting to tip.

I keep one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a slow, restless rhythm against my thigh. Ava gazes out the window, her reflection flickering against the glass as the streetlights paint her face in shifting streaks of gold and shadow. She hasn't said a word since we left.

Somehow, it feels heavier than arguing.

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