Page 1 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

SIN

M y head pounded in time with my racing heart.

The taste of ash coated my tongue—bitter and dry—and the sharp sting of regret clung to the back of my throat like barbed wire.

The stale scent of weed, sex, and sweat hung heavy in the air, dense enough to choke on.

I took a long inhale anyway. A familiar poison that I welcomed.

“Fuck,” I rasped, blinking against the morning light shining in through the cracked blinds. I pushed at the weight crushing my chest.

A girl groaned, shifting on top of me, her limbs tangled with mine. That’s when I realized I was still inside her. Of course I was. I’d been so fucked up last night on a cocktail of booze and drugs I’d had no idea what I was doing. It was like a massive black hole in my memory.

The ache in my back didn’t hold a candle to the dull, bitter void in my chest. My hands, calloused and scarred, moved over smooth skin. She moaned softly and started grinding back against me, chasing whatever high we’d burned through hours ago.

I let her finish, not feeling anything, my body acting on muscle memory alone. Then rolled out from beneath her, cold and numb. I didn’t say a word. Neither did she.

My fingers wrapped around the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. The burn was sharp, but not sharp enough to bring me back to life. All I wanted to do was crawl into my bed, and pass out.

It wasn’t like I had anything to do today.

Even if it was my birthday.

The house was wrecked—an open-plan monument to destruction. Broken furniture, toppled art, someone’s leg hanging off the baby grand piano. A guy was snoring under the glass coffee table, and a couple passed out halfway up the stairs, limbs tangled like bodies in a shallow grave.

The front door slammed. “Sinclair. Fucking. Soul.” My mother’s voice sliced through the air like a scalpel dipped in venom.

For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. No way they were back. They were supposed to be in Cannes or Rome or whatever other shallow hell they were calling “work” this week.

“Sinclair!”

Nope, not a hallucination. I dragged on a pair of jeans I found on the floor and stumbled barefoot into the entryway.

Elizabeth Soul stood in the doorway like some wrathful angel of judgment—draped in a white silk blouse, thousand-dollar heels sharp enough to pierce flesh, her face locked in a permanent expression of disdain. Maddox Soul followed close behind, jaw clenched, suit immaculate, eyes like ice.

“Happy birthday to me,” I muttered, taking a swig from the bottle.

Elizabeth’s eyes scanned the carnage, a flash of horror rippling across her surgically tightened features. “Is that—vomit?”

“Possibly,” I said. “There’s a lot to choose from.”

“Don’t be crass, Sinclair,” Maddox growled. “This is repulsive. Even for you.”

“Sorry, Dad. I didn’t realize we had standards.”

“You have no idea what we’ve sacrificed to give you this life,” Elizabeth spat. “And you squander it on parties and filth.”

“Don’t act like you did it for me,” I snapped. “You did it for your image. For the press. For your fucking fanbase.”

She blinked, her nostrils flaring. “You ungrateful little?—”

“Ungrateful?!” I laughed. “You think I should be thankful for being raised by a PR statement and a glorified absentee landlord?”

“Enough,” Maddox said, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous. “We’re done, Sinclair. This isn’t salvageable. You’re going to your aunt’s.”

I froze. “What the hell did you just say?”

“You’re going to live with Victoria,” Elizabeth said, her tone final. “She’s expecting you.”

“Victoria?” I scoffed. “The one who thinks you’re a disgrace for being in movies and sent me socks for my birthday when I was ten? That Victoria?”

“She agreed to take you in,” Maddox said tightly. “Be grateful. You’ll be out of here by noon.”

“You’re serious?” My voice dropped, flat and sharp. “You’re kicking me out? On my birthday?”

“It’s not a punishment,” Elizabeth said. “It’s accountability. Something you’ve never had.”

“Right.” I took another swig. “That’s just…fucking fantastic.”

“We’re cutting you off,” Maddox said. “You keep your car and what’s in your account. But that’s it. Your credit line is closed.”

“Wow. You guys rehearsed this, didn’t you? Had a whole little debrief session about how to ditch your only kid and still look classy doing it.”

“You’ve made this choice easy for us, Sinclair,” Elizabeth said, glaring. “You’ve humiliated us. Again.”

“Good,” I said quietly. “Because I stopped trying to make you proud a long time ago.”

Her jaw twitched. Maddox looked like he wanted to put a fist through the wall, but he wouldn’t want to get drywall dust on his suit.

“I swear to God, Sin,” he growled. “You’re going to end up dead or in jail if you keep going like this.”

“Maybe that’s better than ending up like you,” I snapped. “Miserable. Hollow. Pretending you’re something you’re not.”

Maddox stepped forward. “You want to get hit, boy?”

“Do it,” I dared him. “Come on. Give the tabloids something real for once.”

He didn’t move. He just stared, breaths ragged, fists clenched, arms locked at his side. Coward . I turned my back on them both and headed upstairs, making my way over the bodies that littered the floor.

“One bag,” Elizabeth called after me. “Pack only what you need.”

I didn’t answer, just carried on to my floor, shaking my head as the staff cleared out the house and my parents argued about how much of a disappointment I was.

In my room, I grabbed the bare essentials.

Cigarettes. My leather jacket that still smelled like the guy I met at the beach last week.

Condoms, out of necessity, and a few changes of clothes.

No photos.

No keepsakes.

Nothing of them.

I kicked off the jeans I’d found in a rush downstairs—still damp with someone else’s sweat—and staggered toward the attached bathroom. The tiles were cold beneath my bare feet. Sharp. Real. I needed something real to ground me.

I didn’t bother waiting for the water temperature to adjust. Just stepped into the shower and let the icy blast hit me like a punch to the chest. The shock stole the breath from my lungs.

I tilted my face up into the spray, closed my eyes, and let it sluice over me.

Washing away the stink of whiskey, smoke, sex, and something worse—failure, maybe. Or apathy.

Dried sweat and cum ran down the drain. Evidence of a night I barely remembered, and wouldn’t want to even if I could. Eventually, the water warmed, but I barely noticed. My skin was already numb. My brain wasn’t far behind.

By the time steam filled the room and blurred the glass, I was out. Towel slung low on my hips, I rubbed at my hair with one hand and wiped the fog from the mirror with the other.

What stared back at me looked more ghost than man. Hollow, sunken eyes. Purple shadows bruised the skin underneath. Cheekbones cut like they’d been carved with glass. Even my golden skin—once my mother’s favorite feature—looked sickly and washed-out under the harsh vanity light.

The house might’ve been a palace, but I looked like I’d crawled out of the gutter. I stared at my reflection for a long time. I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. Maybe nothing. Maybe that was the problem.

I brushed my teeth next—too hard, like I could scrub away the taste of everything I regretted.

It didn’t work. The medicine cabinet was full of designer colognes and skincare shit my mother sent home in press kits.

All unopened. Untouched. Like me. I threw what little mattered into a wash bag and zipped it up.

Then came my ritual as I donned my armour.

Ripped black jeans. A loose tee that hung off one shoulder and smelled faintly of smoke and lavender like the girl I hooked up with at the club the other night.

I laced up my scuffed combat boots, pulling them tight.

One loop around the ankle. A double knot.

I crossed the room, tossed the toiletries into the duffel on my bed, and took one last look. Sheets twisted, headboard cracked, lipstick still smeared on the pillow.

Some people had childhood bedrooms filled with memories. Posters, trophies, and photos taped to the walls. This place? It could’ve belonged to anyone. The walls were white. The art? Chosen by a designer. Soulless. Like the house. Like the people in it.

This room had never felt like mine.

Not when I was five. Not when I was fifteen. Not now.

How could it? I’d been raised by nannies—uniformed, rotating, faceless clones. Hired help paid to raise a child that wasn’t wanted. The only time my parents came home was when I screwed up bad enough to ruin their perfect press narrative.

Elizabeth’s voice from earlier rang in my head, dripping with contempt. “You’re not the son we hoped you’d be.”

Good! Because I never wanted to be theirs in the first place.

I stood there, duffel in front of me, staring at four walls that had watched me grow up and never once felt like they gave a damn. I hadn’t even realized until now just how heavy that emptiness had been.

And I wasn’t about to carry it with me. Not to Victoria’s. Not anywhere.

I zipped the bag shut, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out without looking back. I passed Elizabeth and Maddox in the foyer. I didn’t stop, just snatched my keys from their proffered hands and kept going, disregarding them like they had me my entire life.

“Very mature, Sinclair,” Maddox grunted.

“Don’t call,” Elizabeth cut in with a finality that cut open my bruised heart.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I muttered, pushing through the door only for it to slam shut behind me as soon as my foot hit the porch.