Page 14 of A Taste like Sin

exit—”

The elevator doors close behind him and part seconds later to reveal the lobby, where a sea of

flashing cameras stops me dead in my tracks. Reporters—too damn many of them to be here by

accident. Panic renders me frozen as a million shouted questions descend in a barrage of clashing

voices.

“Miss Thorne! Is it true that you are in a relationship with Damien Villa, the brother of the man your

father sentenced to death?”

“Miss Thorne, care to comment?”

“Juliana! Do you have any comment on the fact that people related to your father’s case have died

recently—”

“Juliana!” A balding man with a beer gut comes from nowhere to shove a microphone in my face.

“Your father has been accused of racial bias. Given your birth mother’s heritage, did you witness

anything of the sort growing up?”

I don’t know what happens. One second, I’m staring down at my trembling fingers. The next, my

knuckles are connecting with something alarmingly flesh-like and blood is flying through the air.

Alarmed cries go up as the reporter crouches, clutching his nose.

“You crazy bitch!” he shrieks as he, and the rest of the world, come back into focus.

Crazy bitch.Those two words are all I hear as I push through the mass of people and somehow make

it out of the building. Blindly, I run, crossing traffic and intersections until I reach some semblance of

quiet what seems like an eternity later. A park, I assume, judging from close-set trees and scattered

benches.

Here, I can hear myself think. About how much of an idiot I am. Gullible. Desperate. Pathetic.

And worthless, apparently. I sure hope Daddy’s meeting or television appearance was worth it.

At least I keep it together until I find a bench tucked within a copse of trees. Only now do I finally

break, burying my face in my hands.

I don’t hear him until it’s too late. By the time I stiffen at the sound of approaching footsteps, he’s

already close enough to swipe his finger along my cheek.

“You know how to make quite the scandal,” he murmurs, his accent especially pronounced.

Despite the overall polished elegance conveyed by his black coat and scarlet scarf, he’s breathing

more quickly than usual. A bead of sweat glints on his jaw. Like he rushed here?