Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

“When I shop, the world gets better, and the world is better, but then it’s not, and I need to do it again.

(Confessions of a Shopaholic-the movie)”

― Sophie Kinsella

Jade

As I brought the bag closer, I eyed its deep emerald finish, tilting it under the light like I was inspecting a diamond and not a purse priced at the cost of a small kitchen remodel.

Chanel or not, I knew the difference between indulgence and outright robbery, and this? This was criminal.

Kelly, the sly fox of retail, read my hesitation like a well-worn script. Her perfectly styled gray hair bobbed as she handed me a glass of champagne, her weapon of choice.

“This bag looks exquisite on you, Miss Whitenhouse. The color is simply divine .”

Of course, she played the emerald card. My Achilles’ heel.

Kelly had me pegged from the first day I’d strolled into this shop four years ago.

Since then, I’d probably funded her vacations, Christmas bonuses, and the “Best Salesperson of the Year” plaque that undoubtedly hung in the back room. And yet, like a moth to a flame—or more accurately, a bag addict to overpriced leather—I kept coming back.

Retail therapy was still therapy, right?

Who needed a shrink when a Prada tote or a Givenchy clutch could fix your bad mood for at least 48 hours?

Was it shallow? Maybe.

Should I care? Probably.

Did I? Absolutely not.

I sighed, sliding my black card out of my wallet. “I’ll take it.”

Kelly’s smile stretched wider than the Grand Canyon as she clapped her hands in delight, ushering me to the register like she’d just won a jackpot.

I took another sip of champagne, letting the fizzy sweetness drown out the nagging voice in my head reminding me I’d just dropped 9K on a bag that would likely end up collecting dust next to last month’s retail regret.

But hey, at least I’d have something pretty to carry my existential dread in.

“I loved your exhibition last Friday— Black and White . The pictures of Werner Bischof and Thomaz Farkas were absolutely stunning. Railways have never looked so alive; I just had to see them in person. Oh, and you looked divine in your Valentino dress. Truly a piece of art yourself, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I smiled, warmth blooming in my chest.

Compliments like that made the endless stress worth it, even if just for a moment.

Being COO was no stroll through luxury. Juggling exhibitions every week to match Angelo Lazzio’s relentless perfectionism wasn’t just exhausting—it was soul-draining. Each new showcase demanded scouring the globe for rare, breathtaking pieces, leaving me creatively hollow by the time the museum’s doors reopened.

With the museum closed one week a month, I had to produce three major exhibitions every four weeks, a rhythm designed to drain anyone not fueled by caffeine and sheer spite.

So yes, I earned every single one of my millions and every indulgent penny spent on couture dresses, high heels, and tiny bags that could barely hold a credit card, let alone my unraveling sanity.

“I’m so pleased to hear that, Kelly. You know I trust your taste implicitly. You’ve never let me down,” I said with a wink.

My week was carved out like clockwork: Sundays and Mondays off, Tuesdays and Wednesdays devoured by endless work, Thursdays reserved for exhibition rehearsals, Fridays set ablaze by exhibition night, and Saturdays split between dissecting every detail in staff meetings.

It was a relentless grind that demanded nothing less than perfection.

After last night’s circus—the four margaritas that left me with a skull-splitting headache, Manuel’s lifeless body I had to step over on my way out of the club, and of course, Angelo Lazzio and his insufferable everything —I needed a hard reset.

Today was my escape hatch: buying things I didn’t need, indulging at my favorite restaurant like calories were a myth, and scrubbing my brain clean of any trace of my boss .

That man, with his compulsive need to micromanage every molecule of my existence—and the one I had a personal vendetta against? Not today.

Today was about me, my credit card, and the unshakable thrill of rebellion.

Or so I had thought.

I said my goodbyes to Kelly, promising to come back next Thursday to collect my Versace dress, and left the store. My toes throbbed in my heels, my arms ached under the weight of too many shopping bags, and my coat clung to me like a furnace.

The city heat only made it worse.

As I wandered down 57th Street, debating where to burn more money, my phone buzzed in my bag.

I stopped, juggling the bags cutting into my legs, and finally set them down to dig out my phone.

“Jade Whitenhouse,” I answered, pressing the phone to my ear.

A woman’s voice, trembling, sniffed on the other end. “Miss Whitenhouse, it’s Laura, your mother’s nurse. I’m deeply sorry to inform you… she’s gone.”

The world tilted.

My heart plummeted, hitting the pit of my stomach like a stone.

“What?” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.

“Your mother passed away this morning, Jade?—”

I didn’t hear the rest.

My head barely registered the words because, at that exact moment, some homeless guy in a baseball cap sprinted past and yanked my Chanel bag right off my arm. I didn’t even move. Didn’t chase him. Didn’t scream. I just stood there, stuck to the pavement like my feet had turned to stone, my tears hot and prickling behind my eyes, refusing to fall.

Three years ago, my mama got sick. Breast cancer.

That’s why she had begged me to come home, to stay with her.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Instead, I’d thrown money at the problem—gotten her the best doctors, the best treatments. I’d brought her to live with me, but she had hated it.

She’d said Bay Village was her home. I had let her go back, thinking it was fine.

I’d called her every day, sent flowers and told myself I’d done enough.

She was the strongest person I knew.

She was supposed to make it. She had to make it.

“But… you said she was doing fine,” I choked out.

Laura sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry, Miss Whitenhouse,” she said again, her words a distant hum as the city spun around me.

And all hell broke loose.

I screamed—loud, raw, and unforgiving—my phone slipping from my fingers, hitting the pavement with a harsh crack. My throat felt like it was being shredded, the kind of pain that rips through your chest and doesn’t stop.

Tears blurred my vision.

I didn’t care that I was standing on a crowded street, people walking past me like I was a ghost. The world kept spinning, like nothing was happening, like I wasn’t crumbling right there in front of them.

Faces stared straight ahead, eyes glued to their screens, too busy to notice.

My pain was just noise to them, background static they couldn’t even be bothered to acknowledge.

Meanwhile, my world shattered for the third time in my life.