Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

“I know it is wet and the sun is not sunny, but we can have lots of good fun that is funny.”

― Dr. Seuss

Jade

26 years old

Four years ago

On the tips of my toes, my ponytail brushing my cheek, I pinned the picture to the wall. I made sure it stayed in place before stepping back and placing my hands on my hips to admire my work.

Another name. Another picture.

The fourth one now.

I dusted my hands off and sank to the floor, spreading out the two files I’d “borrowed” from Lazzio’s office.

The originals? Safely back where they belonged. Files on every one of our clients and collaborators—their lives, weaknesses, secrets, families—everything I’d need for their downfall.

I’d stumbled across Lazzio’s little stash a couple of months ago when he left for China for a month.

Grace, his sweet little witch of a secretary, took the week off; she claimed she was “sick”.

Me, though? I was snooping.

I found those files tucked away in his desk and spent the whole damn night going through them. That’s when I came across the one that made my blood run cold.

James Greg.

A name I knew far too well.

His file was thick , filled with all the dirty little details I didn’t want to know but couldn’t stop myself from reading. Every financial transaction, every shady deal, every little piece of leverage Lazzio had on him.

But it wasn’t the business stuff that caught my attention. It was the personal notes—things no one was supposed to see.

Lazzio had a knack for digging up what people wanted to forget, and Greg was no exception. The guy was a mess, just one bad decision away from crumbling, but somehow he’d managed to keep up the perfect facade.

Honestly, I didn’t give a damn about his life. I was just looking for something that would tell me if he was the one I was after.

After two years in New York working for Lazzio, helping him build his empire, everything was going smoothly—except for the usual back-and-forth power games between us. You know, the kind that had my pulse racing one minute and my eye twitching the next.

It was the twisted kind of entertainment that kept me on my toes, whether I liked it or not.

I was still thirty months sober from drugs, and honestly? I was kind of proud of myself. I still drank, though—just a glass or two a week, usually when I was soaking in the bath.

Work, workouts, and my revenge-plotting nights kept my demons at bay.

But exhaustion didn’t mean I’d let up.

My apartment’s office had become a makeshift headquarters for my plans—a secret room with fingerprint-locked doors, where every lead, every scrap of evidence, and every thread of vengeance was meticulously pinned in place.

If Dr. Morano could see me now, she’d probably say I was wasting my energy clinging to the past. Revenge, she’d tell me, solves nothing, heals nothing. But what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And it certainly wouldn’t stop me.

I hadn’t seen her in three years, though she still emailed me occasionally, asking how I was.

Sometimes, I replied. Sometimes, I didn’t.

Either way, her well-meaning concern barely scratched the surface of what I’d become.

A woman with one singular purpose: to destroy the person who had destroyed her.

The doorbell rang, pulling me out of my scheming.

I got up, gave my dress a quick pat-down, and left the room, double-checking the lock before heading for the hallway mirror.

One glance told me everything was in place—hair flawless, makeup on point.

I slipped on my heels and swung the door open.

“Happy birthday, princess,” Aussie said, holding out a bouquet of red roses with a boyish grin.

Last year, after Lazzio dared me not to screw Nathan Simons, I went ahead and did it anyway. Call it a mix of horniness and spite. He was gone to Australia, I was feeling rebellious, and Nathan was offering, so why not? Dinner turned into drinks, and drinks led to his bed.

Was it the “greatest night of my life” like Nathan had promised? Not even close.

Was it still enjoyable? Absolutely.

A hot, sweaty man deliciously kissing my neck, his mouth going places no one had in years? Yeah, I had missed that.

Without realizing it, Angelo Lazzio and his infuriatingly smug self had managed to crack open the vault I’d sworn shut.

But let’s be clear—I don’t sleep with clients.

Nathan was a one-time rebellion.

These days, I stick to men who are safe bets—no strings, no drama, no ties to my job or my boss.

That’s where Aussie came in.

My yoga instructor, of all people.

At five-foot-eight with surfer hair and brown eyes, he had a vibe so laid back he practically melted into the floor. He was Australian—hence the nickname—which somehow made everything he said sound charming. He was also very much not part of New York’s upper crust, which was a bonus.

We’d met in his hot yoga class two weeks ago.

By class three, I was pretty sure he’d spent more time correcting my form than anyone else’s.

By class four, he’d asked me out.

And by date one, well… let’s just say he had made me laugh—a rarity these days—and the next thing I knew, I was in his bed, rediscovering just how fun a good ride could be.

I gave him a quick once-over: crooked tie, easy grin, the slightest hint of smugness that I didn’t totally hate.

“Thanks, Aussie,” I said, taking the red roses.

Not the most original choice, but at least he wasn’t empty-handed.

I wished they were red dahlias though.

I set the bouquet on the counter, grabbed my keys, double-checked for my phone and lip gloss, and got out.

The door clicked shut behind me as I turned back to him.

I pouted. “Is this my only present?”

“Well, you’ll have to wait,” he said, his voice smooth, almost teasing. “But first, let me take you dancing, princess.”

And that’s the moment I knew.

After tonight, I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

The way he spat out “ princess ” made my skin crawl.

I almost turned around right there, locked myself in my apartment, and threw up.

But it was my birthday, and I hadn’t been out dancing in so long.

I needed a little fun back in my life, so I decided to follow him—begrudgingly—to the elevator and into the cab.

The whole time, I was silently praying that the club he’d chosen wasn’t as lame as he was.

Aussie may have had a disastrous personality, but at least he had good taste in clubs and women—after all, he was after me .

He guided me through the crowd, his hand lingering on my lower back.

People were dancing, singing, and having the kind of fun I hadn’t realized I was missing. Exactly the vibe I needed.

When we reached the bar, I leaned against it and ordered a margarita—extra lemony—and Aussie went for a beer. How original.

“Have I told you already how fucking hot you are tonight?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Only tonight?”

He grabbed my hand and kissed the top. “Every day, princess. But tonight? You shine brighter than a disco ball.”

I glanced down at my dress—sparkly silver, sinfully short, with a perfectly fitting bustier. Dolce honestly, I wasn’t mad about it.

I looped my arms around his neck, my hands playing with his hair. His hands slid down to my hips, pulling me closer until we were practically glued together.

The music was infectious, and I could feel it vibrating through my chest.

I pulled back slightly. “What’s the name of this club?”

When we exited the taxi, I had barely glanced up. I was too busy focusing on not tripping in these damn heels that somehow made me just a little taller than him.

No comment.

“The Diamond.”

Hmm, it sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

He turned me around, pressing me to his front, his chest warm and solid against my back. I could feel his breath on my neck, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer.

His teeth grazed my ear. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

I smirked, biting my lip. “You have no idea.”

We kept dancing, and for a moment I let myself get lost in it—the lights, the music, the intoxicating feeling of a man pressed up against me?—

Wait!

The Diamond.

Now it clicked. I had heard the name before.

It was Leonardo Vittori’s club.

Lazzio’s closest friend—or, as I liked to call him, his bestie .

I’d never met the man, but I’d heard enough to know I should avoid him at all costs. Any friend of Lazzio’s had to be just as insufferable as he was.

Great. Just fucking great.

Of course I’d end up in the one place where Lazzio’s presence lingered like a ghost, even when he wasn’t physically there.

And tonight? I didn’t want to run into anyone from his circle—or him.

I’d seen enough of him this week—hell, this month—to last me a lifetime.

It was tradition at the office: everyone got their birthday off.

For the last two years, I’d kept mine the same.

Get up, work out, head to the store for a vanilla cupcake with strawberry icing, and FaceTime my mom so she could sing me Happy Birthday while I blew out the candle. Then I’d hang up, order takeout, and spend the day in my vault poring over contracts, digging into our clients’ lives. Or, if my heart got too heavy, retreat to a bubble bath with a glass of wine and The Office on a loop for a good laugh.

I’d checked all the boxes today—except the going-out part. That was new.

As predictable as ever, Lazzio had sent his yearly text—“Happy Birthday.”

Short, dry, and devoid of any warmth, but somehow still exactly him.

Tomorrow, I'll find an envelope on my desk.

Inside, there’d be a note: Use this to relax and stop pissing me off , along with a spa voucher.

The bastard knew me too well.

So yeah, I didn’t want to see him. Especially not on my birthday.

I turned on my heel and placed my hands on Aussie’s chest.

“I’m bored. Let’s go.”

Taking a step to leave, I barely got anywhere before he grabbed my wrist. Tight. Too tight.

“Wait,” he said, pulling me closer, his grip firm on my hips. “Your present’s comin’.”

My stomach twisted.

The shift in his tone wasn’t cute. It wasn’t teasing. It was something darker, something I didn’t like one bit.

His whole vibe had shifted from charming to something… off.

I pushed at his chest. “Let me go. I’m getting another drink, then I’m out of here. This birthday adventure? Officially over.”

His fingers dug into my hips, hard enough to bruise, and I felt the slow burn of fury ignite under my skin.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he growled, his Australian accent cutting sharper than usual, “And you’re gonna take the bloody present I forked out half my paycheck for. Then you’re gonna shut your damn gob.”

What the hell?

He thought he could manhandle me? Threaten me? Like hell.

I let out a scoff. “Half your salary? You should’ve saved your money, mate . You’re about to spend the rest of it on an emergency room bill if you don’t let go of me right now.”

His hand shot to my chin, yanking my face closer with enough force to make my jaw ache. “You fucking?—”

He didn’t get to finish, because the lights suddenly cut out, plunging us into darkness. The DJ, who clearly had no sense of timing, kicked off “Happy Birthday” with cringe-worthy enthusiasm.

The lights flickered back on, but only on us .

Out of nowhere, two girls with stripper heels—barely dressed in anything except tiny bikinis—strutted toward us. They were carrying two massive bottles of some ridiculously expensive brand of champagne, and both had firework sparklers shooting from the tops.

Aussie instantly let go of my chin, a fake grin plastering itself on his face.

He tried to laugh it off like nothing had happened, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Happy birthday, princess,” he muttered, still not letting go of me entirely.

I didn’t say a word, just took the champagne glass one of the bikini-clad girls handed me.

She grinned wide, shaking the bottle like it owed her money. When the cork shot off, champagne sprayed everywhere; the crowd cheered.

She poured the bubbly into my glass—or at least, tried to. Most of it missed and ended up on my new Louboutins. Fantastic.

I stared down at the sticky mess pooling around my toes, my grip tightening on the glass.

The crowd kept clapping, phones out, recording every second like this was the highlight of their miserable lives. Meanwhile, all I could think about was how satisfying it would be to smash the champagne bottle over Aussie’s smug head.

The idea wasn’t just tempting—it felt inevitable, like fate.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the bottle from Barbie’s hands. She blinked, her expression morphing from playful to startled in an instant. “Hey?—”

She didn’t get to finish.

With one smooth, wide arc, I swung the bottle straight into Aussie’s head. The satisfying crack of glass shattering echoed through the air, followed by an explosion of champagne that showered the nearby crowd and my dress.

He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

The crowd froze for a beat, then erupted in a mix of gasps, cheers, and horrified laughter.

I stood there for a second, breathing hard, holding the jagged remains of the bottle like it was some kind of trophy.

I sighed. “Happy birthday to me.”