Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
“They won't believe you until you succeed.”
― Brajesh Kumar Singh
Jade
28 years old
Two years ago
“I can’t believe it! Me, winning the award for the best art show in New York?”
Lazzio didn’t even spare me a glance.
His fingers kept flying over his keyboard. “Not you , Miss Whitenhouse. Lazzio Exhibits Inc. You’re just the one collecting the award.”
I threw myself onto his sofa, crossing my arms. “Same thing. Besides, I do own thirty percent of it now. So technically, it’s practically mine.”
He shot me a look so murderous, I half expected him to reach for the nearest sharp object. But he didn’t say a word. Just kept tapping away on his keyboard like I wasn’t even there.
I leaned back into the couch, tapping my nails against my chin. “What on earth am I gonna wear to this gala? I need something that screams I won bitches! but, like, in a classy way. You know?”
“Get out. You’re giving me a fucking headache.”
I grinned, lounging deeper into the couch. “Thank God you won’t be there tonight. I’ve seen enough of you for the whole month.”
“I’ve invested millions over the years into that gala. I’m obligated to go. But trust me, knowing you’ll be there annoys me just as much.”
A bad taste filled my mouth.
“Seriously, what’s your deal? You followed me to my meeting with the mayor yesterday, and three days ago you were stalking me at a meeting with one of our investors. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re a little obsessed with me, Lazzio.”
He scoffed. “Ah, obsessed, huh?”
I glared at him. “You heard me.”
He leaned back, eyes narrowing as he scoffed. “Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. I’m not obsessed, just making sure you’re doing your job and not adding another client to your list of men to fuck. I heard about Nathan Simons.” Disgust curled his lips. “You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”
My stomach dropped to my toes, but I shoved the feeling down before it could settle.
How did he find out?
For some bizarre reason, every time a man’s name came up—whether I’d seen him, dated him, or even just mentioned him—Lazzio’s reaction was always the same: disgust, quickly followed by indifference.
It was almost as if the idea of me being sexual made him sick, which frankly was rich coming from someone with his questionable kinks I’d accidentally uncovered.
I pouted. “Jealous that you’ll never make it onto the list?”
He ran his tongue over his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening as his eyes darkened to something almost lethal.
For a moment, I was sure he was mentally calculating how to dispose of my body without anyone noticing.
“Careful, Miss Whitenhouse.”
His tone was so ice cold it practically burned.
Yeah, that was my cue.
I wasn’t suicidal—annoying him was fun, but even I knew when to quit.
No need to let his bad mood wreck my perfectly good night ahead.
I stood, smoothing my skirt, and made a show of sauntering toward the door, a sway in my hips just for fun.
As I reached the door, I turned just enough to catch his gaze, letting my lips curve into a smirk. “Oh, and just a heads-up—Nathan Simons? Best sex of my life. You could probably take a few notes.”
A little white lie, sure, but it hit the mark.
I didn’t stick around for his reaction, though the murderous tick in his jaw and the way his hands clenched the edge of his desk spoke volumes.
The door clicked shut behind me, and barely a second later, something heavy crashed against it, rattling the frame so hard I half expected it to splinter.
I bit back a laugh and strutted to the elevator, feeling more alive than I had all week.
My speech lasted thirty minutes—a well-rehearsed string of gratitude directed at the socialites hosting the event, and the Mayor of New York for allowing our space to evolve from a mere museum into a dynamic, living art experience (or whatever term the PR department had spun for it).
I thanked my colleagues for their tireless overtime efforts and—begrudgingly—Angelo Lazzio, my boss, for founding Lazzio Exhibits Inc. and building this empire that somehow made art accessible to people from all walks of life.
I also expressed our profound gratitude for this honor, despite last year’s little hiccup—a devastating fire that had momentarily turned the museum into ash and memories.
Officially, the incident had been blamed on an open gas line and an unfortunate cigarette, the perfect cocktail of negligence and bad timing.
Unofficially? It was the handiwork of the enemies of Lazzio’s friend, Alexsei Romaniev.
Angelo’s precious creation hadn’t been the target, just collateral damage in someone else’s feud—a messy inconvenience for the rest of us.
After the fire, we’d shuttered what was left of the museum and had embarked on a rebuilding project. That had cost a jaw-dropping $25 million, and had required over a year of work.
Now, we were finally ready to reopen—well, partially. Some levels were polished enough for visitors, though it would still be a while before we were hosting grand exhibitions under the stars again.
Then came the award—shiny, heavy, and with a fat check for $200K.
I decided to donate it to an underground charity for burn victims.
It felt like the right thing to do.
As the host announced dinner, I made my way off the stage with champagne in hand, cursing myself for choosing my brand-new YSL heels—still unforgiving—while my feet screamed for mercy.
I opted for a black silk siren dress, sleek hair, and red lips, my uniform for such occasions.
When I reached the table, a small crowd began to form around me, bombarding me with questions like I was on a late-night talk show.
“Miss Whitenhouse, you look absolutely stunning.”
“Who is your date tonight, Miss Whitenhouse?”
“Congratulations on your promotion to COO!”
“Can you do an exhibit on wild animals?”
The crowd swelled to the point where I almost felt suffocated.
“Miss Whitenhouse, I’d love to partner with you on ? —”
I forced myself not to roll my eyes, plastering on a fake smile that could rival any Hollywood starlet’s.
As they continued to throw questions at me, my eyes drifted from one face to the next until I finally managed to escape to my seat and stuff my annoyance down with caviar and lobster.
The second I sat down, my eyes locked on Lazzio; he was relaxed in his chair, glass of water in hand. His attention was completely on the blonde next to him. She was the perfect fit—blue eyes, freckles, sporty, and just his type.
His gaze was warm and amused as it lingered on her like he was studying a piece of art, that lazy smirk of his never quite fading.
He sipped from his glass, eyes boring into hers as she blushed every time he said something low and leaned in close.
She giggled—God, the sound was unbearable—before lightly swatting his arm.
Then he leaned in again, lips near her ear, and whatever he whispered made her flush with excitement. She downed her champagne in two quick gulps, a grin tugging at her lips as she placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered something back.
With a flirtatious smile, she excused herself and got up.
I couldn’t help but let out a quiet scoff, reaching for a shrimp and biting into it. Hard.
Lazzio’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t even bother glancing in my direction.
Then, the words he’d said this afternoon started to echo in my head—heavy, burning, and just as infuriating as before.
You really know how to pick them, don’t you?
I glanced around the table, everyone lost in conversation, chattering, and laughing loudly.
Leaning in, I couldn’t resist. “You should probably follow her. She doesn’t seem too bright—might get lost out there. Wouldn’t want her to slip away before you get your turn , huh?”
I reached for my champagne glass and took a slow sip, my eyes never leaving him.
I tilted my head, a playful pout curving my lips. “But then again, that’s your type, right? Dumb, pretty, and completely self-absorbed. You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”
“Jealous, diavoletta ?”
I set my glass down, and leaned back. “Jealous? Please . More like bored.”
Why would I be?
I couldn’t stand the man with his perfectly tailored suits and that cold, detached persona. It made me think he had never actually lived a day outside of his perfectly curated life.
“Ah, I didn’t realize my sex life was your entertainment, Miss Whitenhouse,” he said, his voice smooth and dark. “But if you’re looking for a show, you’ll be waiting a long fucking time. I’m not in the habit of letting anyone watch.”
“That’s not what I heard, Lazzio.”
A couple of months ago, at one of our exhibitions, I overheard some girls in the bathroom gossiping about him. Apparently, he had a threesome with two girls—one had to watch while he did the other, and the other had to do the same.
Absolutely disgusting.
“You’ve been spying on me now?” he drawled.
“Every day, every night,” I sighed, feigning exhaustion. “You’re like a parasite. Always there, forcing me to waste my time on your questionable behavior. Honestly, I’d call it a public service to keep an eye on you.”
For the first time in the four years I’ve known him, he laughed.
A dark, earth-shaking laugh that curled between my legs.
I tilted my head. “Women must be not only dumb but also blind to fall for your pretty face and miss the gaping void where your heart should be.”
The corner of his lips lifted. “Maybe they’re hoping to fill it.”
“With what? Cheap perfume, a blowjob, and crocodile tears?”
“You tell me. It’s clearly working on you, Miss Whitenhouse.”
“Working? Please .” My gaze flicked over him, unimpressed. “You’d have to try a hell of a lot harder, Lazzio.”
His smirk deepened. “Let me know when you’re done lying to yourself.”
I didn’t get a chance to reply—thankfully—because the butlers arrived with trays of food. Frankly, I was in no mood to entertain him any longer.
I excused myself with a tight smile—three glasses of champagne were working their magic, and nature was calling.
I made my way to the restroom, expertly avoiding anyone who might want to chat.
The last thing I needed was more small talk.
I locked the door behind me with a sigh of relief and went about my business.
But of course, when you go out of your way to avoid gossip, it has an annoying way of falling right into your lap.
“I’m hookin’ up with Angelo Lazzio tonight,” a girl chanted, her voice practically dripping with excitement.
I could tell it was definitely the blonde girl who had been sitting next to him.
“Stop! You’re so lucky, Kiara! But I’ve heard some things… You have to confirm them tomorrow,” another girl gushed.
“Like what?”
A faucet splashed, then cut off abruptly.
“Okay, you know the weird girl with the bob who works at the Chanel store on 57th, Lindsay? She slept with him a few months ago, right after she styled him for that meet-and-greet with the president. She said he’s only into it from behind, no missionary or anything like that, and…”
The words hung in the air. Silence.
I leaned in, pressing my ear to the door, desperate to catch the rest.
“Well, what?” Kiara snapped, impatience lacing her voice.
I didn’t blame her. I was dying to know too.
The girl’s voice lowered, barely a whisper now. “He doesn’t… you know… go down on women.”
I slightly gasped behind the door, pressing my hand over my mouth to stifle it.
What?
What kind of weirdo skips the basic stuff? No missionary and no oral?
“Are you serious? That’s… that’s a red flag.”
“Yeah,” the other girl muttered. “But apparently he’s really, really good at other things. Like, exceptionally good. The Chanel girl couldn’t stop talking about it for days.”
With that, the two girls giggled and left, their laughter fading as they disappeared down the hall.
I stood there for a moment, frozen.
Angelo Lazzio doesn’t fuck missionary and doesn’t like to go down on women.
What a boring man.
I slowly pulled myself together and washed my hands, my mind racing with confusion and curiosity.
If I had thought my boss was weird before, now I thought he was a straight-up sociopath.
How does someone like that function in the real world?
No going down… yet apparently he was some kind of sex machine?
I sighed and left, heading back to eat dinner in silence, pretending I wasn’t a tiny bit obsessed with everything I had just overheard.