Page 210 of Sinful Lies

I hadn’t realized how much I needed it until I stood there, watching my past collide with my present.

When we’d gotten back to New York, Angelo had returned to work, and I’d asked for some space to think things through. Of course, “space” didn’t mean what you’d think. Before I left, he had me pinned beneath him in bed, arms trapped above my head, fucking me into a promise I’d stay in the city—and most importantly, not run off to Scotland.

Honestly, I was so close to coming, I would’ve promised him my kidneys if he’d asked.

Since then, I’d emptied my apartment. I’d cleared out the room where years of resentment and bitterness had festered, burning paperwork, files, and pictures until there was nothing left but ashes.

Angelo lasted three days without me. On day four, he showed up at my apartment, unapologetic as always, and declared he couldn’t sleep without me. He told me if I needed space to think, I could do it during the day—but at night, he was staying. I didn’t argued. Amazing sex, nightly massages,andbreakfast in bed? That hadn’t been space—it had been a bribe.

And I wasn’t complaining.

But today was different. Today marked the end of this chapter.

I was packing up my life and preparing to step into the unknown, but not before making sure I’d left my mark here—on him, on this office, and on the memories we’d built.

The elevator dinged at his office level, and I stepped out, my heels clicking against the floor.

I strode down the corridor, pushing the door open without a second thought.

But what—or more accurately, who—I saw froze me in place.

“Hello, Miss Whitenhouse.”

My throat tightened, but I swallowed it down. “Hello, Mrs. Greg.”

Laurie Greg.

James Greg’s wife.

The wife of the man I’d killed—coldly, without hesitation, and without an ounce of remorse.

Angelo’s voice broke the charged silence. “Please, sit, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I moved on autopilot, walking to the couch and sinking down beside him. He didn’t look at me, but the way his hand brushed against mine as I settled was enough to steady my nerves.

Laurie Greg sat in the armchair across from us.

Her presence filled the room, cold and immaculate. She was the kind of woman who didn’t just wear vintage Chanel, but made it feel like it had been designed just for her—a pale pink two-piece that should have softened her, but didn’t.

Her hair was twisted into a tight bun, her features sharp and striking, every line of her face etched with a beauty that hadn’t faded with age, but had only grown more lethal. She had to be in her early sixties, but the years had done nothing to dull her.

If anything, they’d made her more dangerous.

Her eyes—icy, pale blue—cut to me first, then Angelo, her lips curving into a smile that wasn’t really a smile.

“My husband,” she began, her voice smooth as silk stretched taut, “has been missing for over a month.”

The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable like a stone sinking deeper into my gut.

Angelo leaned back, his arms folding across his chest. “We’re sorry to hear that.”

Laurie let out a laugh—a quiet, hollow sound that managed to be both elegant and vicious. “Sorry?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Funny choice of words, considering you two are the ones who gotridof him.”

Her gaze flicked back to me, cold and assessing, like she was peeling back my skin to see what was underneath.

Angelo didn’t blink. “That’s a serious accusation, Laurie.”

Laurie leaned back in her chair, her smile growing wider and somehow crueler. “Oh, it’s not an accusation,” she said softly, almost sweetly. “It’s the truth and… I wanted to thank you both.”

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