Page 68 of Sinfully Yours

A slow warmth spreads through my chest, knocking the air from my lungs.

Because this?

This means something.

I curl my fingers around the bracelet, my pulse skittering. Liam Carter just gave me back a piece of my mother.

14

AVA

There are a lot of things I could say about Willow Creek's elite, but one thing is undeniable—they know how to throw a party.

The North Hill Charity Gala is the pinnacle of the social calendar, an event dripping in old money and new ambition, where champagne flows as easily as carefully curated gossip. The grand ballroom of the Sterling Hotel is awash in gold and ivory, chandeliers glittering overhead like something out of a Gatsby fever dream. Waiters in crisp black and white weave through the crowd, silver trays balancing flutes of Dom Pérignon and delicate amuse-bouchées that cost more than my rent.

It's all opulence, all excess, and up until this point, exactly the kind of place I expected Liam Carter to thrive in.

And tonight, I'm supposed to thrive right alongside him.

I smooth my hands down my dress, a sleek, floor-length number in deep emerald satin, the kind that hugs just enough curves to be interesting but leaves plenty to the imagination. Classic but bold. The kind of dress that says I belong here, even if I still feel like an imposter in these circles. My hair is styled in loose waves over one shoulder, a statement diamond cuff borrowed from Ryan glinting on my wrist.

The finishing touch is Liam Carter on my arm.

He's the definition of effortless charm in a tailored tux, all broad shoulders and crisp lines, the ink of his tattoos just barely visible beneath his cufflinks. And because Liam can never resist a power move, he's foregone a traditional tie, opting instead to leave the first two buttons of his shirt open—just enough to be infuriatingly attractive.

He catches me looking sideways at him and smirks. Because of course he does.

"Nervous, Bennett?"

I roll my eyes, feigning nonchalance as I take the champagne flute from the tray passing by. "Not even remotely."

His smirk deepens. "Good." He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Then try to look like you're having fun."

My pulse skips, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral. We're in public, playing a role. The last thing I need is my body betraying me over the way his voice dips just low enough to make my skin tingle.

So I do what I do best. I fake it.

I flash a practiced smile, looping my arm through his as we step deeper into the ballroom. "Oh, I'm having the best time, Carter. Can't you tell?"

His chuckle is low, indulgent. "Much better."

And then—just as I take another sip of champagne—I see Vanessa Chase, standing across the room, radiant in ice-blue silk, her blonde hair as sleek and sharp as the smile curving her lips. She's engaged in effortless conversation with a man who looks like he probably owns half the city, one delicate hand resting on his arm, her entire demeanor the picture of confidence and control.

And then—just to twist the knife—she glances my way.

Our eyes meet, and she smirks.

I swallow the very tempting urge to launch my champagne at the nearest wall—because that's exactly what she wants. And I refuse to give her the satisfaction of watching me commit a very expensive tantrum.

Instead, I down the whole thing in one go. A waste, really, because it's damn good champagne—sharp, sweet, with just the right bite of citrus. I set the empty glass down with the dignity of someone who absolutely did not just chug a drink meant for slow, elegant sips.

By the time the bubbles work their fizzy little magic, I feel invincible. Untouchable. Like no one—not even her—can ruin my day.

"Liam." My voice is light, almost bored. "Vanessa's here."

He tenses beside me. "Tell me something I don't know."

I turn to him, raising a brow. "Does this mean we're closer to finding out who sent the messages?"

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