Only the Lovely (The Sinful State #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Adrien

The last thing I expected on a random Tuesday was Alicia Morgan demanding an emergency meeting. I despise being summoned, but when the Scandal Queen clears her schedule, someone’s world is about to implode.

The storm system hovering over the city lends a dark haze to the sky, rain pelting the glass. Fitting for a morning hampered by jet lag and a meeting my sister, Margot, insisted I take.

“I vote we order in,” Tommy says, ankle crossed over his knee, arm draped across the Chesterfield sofa like he hasn’t a care in the world. He wouldn’t—Alicia didn’t demand his presence.

I rub my eyes, debating whether to have more caffeine or an intravenous hydration drip. It’s Manhattan—there must be one nearby. Maybe if I hadn’t had that third scotch on the plane…

“News says subways are flooding.”

“Since when have you taken the subway?”

“Fair. Still, I can’t walk into court with soaked trousers.”

I press the desk phone. “Can you bring in menus? We’ll order lunch.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Tommy leans back. “So Margot’s dictating your schedule. Aside from being a thorn in your side, how’s she doing?”

“She’s well. Busy.”

I hesitate. “She asked about you,” I add, though I shouldn’t.

There’s a rap at the walnut door. “Come in.”

A young woman, an administrative temp, enters, beige skirt suit, nervous hands shaking menus.

“You can hand those to the judge,” I say.

Tommy barely glances as he takes them.

“Sir, your twelve o’clock is here. Ms. Alicia Morgan. Should I ask if she’d like to join you for lunch?”

“No. We’ll be done before the food arrives.”

The click of heels announces her before the door opens. To hell with the weather—she’s immaculate in ivory Givenchy and Prada heels, hair a dark wave, eyes a sharp blue that take in everything at once.

“Alicia Morgan,” I say. She’s the founder and CEO of Morgan & Company, a crisis communications firm. From what I’ve heard, she’s the one everyone from celebrities to presidents go to when things go tits up.

“Judge Brennan,” she greets Tommy, before adding with smooth authority, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m short on time. This conversation needs to be private.”

“I’m going,” he says, and slips out.

I round my desk. Alicia commands the room, something I’ll allow, as from what I’ve heard, you want her on your side. “Can I get you—”

“No, thank you.” The words cut, but the smile that follows is practiced and bright. It softens the edge just enough to remind me she’s not all steel.

She opens a pale leather briefcase and passes me a folder. “I need you to confirm whether these photographs were taken inside your club.”

The Sanctuary. My chest tightens. Discretion is its foundation—no phones, no cameras. If this trust is breached, everything I’ve built crumbles.

I flip through black-and-white prints. A man on a sofa. A woman straddling a blurred figure. Too intimate, too familiar. I study the headboard, the chains. Suite 7A.

I close the folder and set it on the table between us. “Where did your client get these?”

“He’s being blackmailed.”

“Who knows?”

“Right now? Just him. Let’s keep it that way.”

When she reaches for the folder, my hand comes down over it, stopping her.

“You must know I intend to find the source,” I say.

“Unless you’re the extortionist.”

I flinch. “I don’t need money, Ms. Morgan. My reputation—and my business—are inviolable.”

“Your sister said you’d never risk this club’s reputation. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

Of course Margot vouched for me. “What did you tell her?”

“That if this isn’t handled, your business goes under. Simple as that.”

No wonder Margot insisted.

“I need everything you have.” My employees. Everyone is a suspect.

“My client believes he’s not the only victim,” she says, sliding the folder out from under my hand and drawing it back toward her. “We’re meeting with an investigative team Friday. I want you there.”

“That’s four days.”

“There’s no demand yet. This was a preview.”

Her client must be political. A divorce. Exposure. Influence at stake.

“I’ll work with your team—on one condition. I take the lead on matters concerning the club.”

Her eyes narrow. “This folder is one piece of a much bigger case.”

“And I’ll root out the leak. If the leak isn’t the extortionist, the leak will lead you to the source. One team. My lead.”

A pause. “I can live with that.” She stands. “If I can move the meeting up, I will. Assume your schedule is flexible.” The tone is clipped, but when her gaze meets mine, there’s a flicker of something else—resolve that feels personal. She’s fighting for her client, yes, but also for principle.

“Send me everything—metadata, angles, locations.”

“These files aren’t moving. You want the digital assets, you come to me. Tomorrow. Eight a.m.”

When the door shuts, I stay where I am, staring out at the storm-darkened skyline.

Three years I’ve poured into The Sanctuary—every detail perfected, every indulgence crafted, every weakness anticipated.

It was meant to be untouchable, a refuge of discretion.

Now someone intends to twist it into leverage, into a weapon.

They picked the wrong business to undermine—and definitely the wrong man to cross.

I stand and walk to the windows, forehead nearly touching the cool glass.

To some, the club offered exclusivity and connections.

To others, the place offered velvet and shadows, elusive aromas, and silk against skin in darkened corners.

I’d always understood what I was building: not just exclusivity, but permission.

Permission to want—and act within the protective walls—without consequence.

And someone corrupted it. Turned sanctuary into weapon.