Page 101 of A Taste like Sin
“I’ve always supported my father publicly,” I croak. “Always.”
“I heard he’s awake.” Stepping forward, he leads me past an army of valets laden with trays of wine
ready to be served to the partygoers. “One might presume you’d be with him.”
“He wanted me here.” God, I hate how my voice keeps breaking. Maybe the will didn’t cement it, but
just being here does. I am Heyworth Thorne’s daughter for better or for worse. He lied to me; there’s
no erasing that. But at the end of the day, he still trusts me with his most important possession of all:
his name. “I’m doing this forhim.”
“Well, perhaps you may be interested in lending his support in the form of an endorsement?”
“An endorsement?” I raise an eyebrow, scanning the ballroom for a familiar face in a sea of beautiful
strangers. A few weeks of self-imposed exile and I barely recognize the polished upper crust of
society anymore. I’m a tainted doll now with visible cracks, drawing eyes everywhere I go.
“Yes. In light of Heyworth’s unfortunate health concerns, my son Kyle has decided to run for mayor in
his stead.” He nods toward a man standing near a corner of the room, surrounded by fawning guests.
At a glance, a slight resemblance is obvious in their confident stature and dark-brown hair. “An
endorsement from you in your father’s place would be a fitting show of solidarity.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I say, forcing a smile. “But I should discuss it with him first.”
“He’s talking?” His head swivels in my direction, his eyebrows furrowed. “His condition has
improved that much?”
“It’s better than expected,” I admit, blinking tears back. “But still touch and go.”
“I see.” He lowers his head, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry to hear the old son of a bitch still isn’t at
his full health. Maybe I should schedule another visit? See if he knows anything about what may have
caused his condition?”
“Maybe…” I trail off as a figure near the back of the room catches my attention.
A man standing tall, his eyes shielded by a blindfold. Whether he realizes it or not, women flock to
him, casting him searching glances.
From them, he might choose his next willing muse.
His next victim to destroy.
“Excuse me, Juliana,” Harrison says, releasing my arm. “I’m sorry to abandon you, but I think I see a
colleague.”
Abandon. The word stings more than the context—turning into agony the more I observe the
