Page 13 of Sinful Lies

My eyes scanned the expansive office, taking in its opulence.

Marble floors gleamed under soft lighting, and sleek, black, luxurious furniture filled the space. One side boasted a U-shaped couch around a low, modern coffee table, while the other featured an imposing desk with three computer screens glowing faintly.

The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the breathtaking New York City skyline, a spectacle of lights and snow drifting lazily against the glass.

From the 33rd floor, the view was nothing short of stunning.

Finally, my gaze landed on the man behind the desk.

Angelo Lazzio.

CEO of Lazzio Entertainment Group and Lazzio Exhibits Inc.

The only son and heir of Carlos and Monica Lazzio, members of one of the three richest families in the West.

He rose from his chair with an effortless grace, his movements slow as he rounded the desk and leaned casually against it, arms crossed.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, his brow arched in mild curiosity, or perhaps disdain—it was hard to tell.

Angelo Lazzio was the epitome of the Italian archetype.

Tall, dark, and frankly,disgustinglyhandsome.

He was the kind of man you’d call unfairly good looking, the sort that makes you question if life handed out certain genes as a cruel joke.

If I weren’t still riding the high of adrenaline from shoving his old secretary into the elevator like the star of my own low-budget action movie, I might have felt a twinge of intimidation.Might have.

Instead, I drew in a steadying breath, squared my shoulders, and let the faintest smirk curve my lips.

“I’ll keep this quick, Lazzio,” I began, my voice calm but edged with determination. “I may be young, but don’t mistake that for naïveté. You have no idea how much value I can bring to this place—or how I can turn your museum intothepremier art showcase in the world.”

His expression was unreadable.

Still, I pressed on, taking a step closer.

“I’ve done my research. Your museum opened a few months ago, and the critics were less than kind: too predictable, too cold, lackingpassion. But passion? Passion is what I bring.” My voice softened. “I’ll make it unforgettable, Lazzio. I’ll make itglorious.”

Before he could respond, Grace burst into the room, red-faced and panting, clutching the doorframe.

“I’m…sosorry, sir,” Grace huffed, her glare practically drilling a hole through me. “I called security. Shepushedme to get in here!”

Lazzio’s dark gaze slid from Grace to me, lingering as if I were an oddity worth examining. Then, just barely, the cornerof his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one.

“It’s fine, Grace. Leave us.”

Her jaw dropped, her eyes widening in shock. “But, sir?—”

He turned to her fully, and when his eyes met hers, the room seemed to shift. There was no raising of his voice, no visible threat, just a look. But it was enough to make Grace snap her mouth shut like a bear trap.

With a curt nod she backed out of the office, shooting me one last withering glance before the door clicked shut behind her.

His eyes locked back onto mine, cold andfartoointense.

Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.

The thought slipped into my head, unwelcome and wholly inappropriate.

I couldn’t tell if it was more disturbing or intoxicating, but it hung there, a soft and sinful whisper.

---