Page 25 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

SIN

B rookhaven Ridge looked different in the light of day.

There was something unnervingly peaceful about it—the way the sun gilded the treetops, the hush of wind slipping through branches, the kind of quiet that pressed down on you and made you hear everything you’d rather not.

I’d never really stopped to take it in before.

Back in L.A., I’d spent so long numb, chasing highs, chasing people—chasing anything that made me feel like I wasn’t invisible. Like I existed outside the shadow of someone else’s name.

My childhood was a parade of strangers—nannies who left before I could remember their names, a mother I knew better from red carpet interviews than real life. The only consistent presence in my life was the silence that filled every room after they were gone.

I couldn’t go back to that. Not again. Not when I’d just started to remember how to breathe without begging someone to notice me first.

The breeze swept across my skin as I waited, the kind of cool that raised goosebumps and made you feel alive in a way nothing in L.A. ever had.

Thalia said she wanted to talk. She didn’t say what about. Just that it mattered. Having a friend—a real one—was unfamiliar terrain. Like crossing a battlefield without armor, hoping you didn’t step on something buried and sharp.

It didn’t take long before the fragile birdsong was drowned out by the dying rattle of her Fiat, coughing up dust as she pulled up next to my Dodge.

The door creaked open and out she stepped, lips painted the color of dried blood, curling into a smirk as she spotted me sitting in the same place we’d shared that night under the stars.

“Morning, beautiful. What’s with the cloak and dagger?”

She dropped down next to me without giving an answer, body warm beside mine, the scent of cigarette smoke and something citrusy clinging to her jacket.

“Nothing dramatic, Trouble,” she said, voice breezy. “Just wanted to have a heart-to-heart with my bestie.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Ha. You wish.”

“So what’s going on?”

She hesitated, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jacket and offered me one before lighting her own. Smoke filled my lungs—sharp, bitter, grounding. Like it burned through the ache in my chest and left something steadier behind.

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

I arched a brow but didn’t speak, fingers tapping against my thigh.

She turned to me, her tone softening. “Are you happy at your aunt’s place?”

I let out a short laugh and immediately choked on the smoke. “Happy?” I scoffed, wiping at my watering eyes. “I mean, it’s not a cardboard box. Could be worse.”

She looked at me, and I felt it—really felt it. Like she was peeling me open, layer by layer. “Is she good to you?”

I stared out over the valley, pretending I didn’t feel the sting of that question.

“She treats me like a stray someone dumped on her doorstep. Keeps me around out of guilt, or image, or both. I pay her rent—fifty percent of what I earn.”

“You fucking what?” she snapped, eyes wide. “Does she make you cook too?”

“I can cook.”

I had to learn. When the house went quiet and the staff stopped showing up because my parents were off chasing another dream, another party, another award. When I got home from boarding school and found no one waiting, just echoing hallways and stale air.

They didn’t even know I was home. They walked in mid-conversation, surprised to see me sprawled across the theater room couch like I must have broken in. The look on their faces—that blend of discomfort and disappointment—had never left me.

“Sin.”

The slap caught me off guard. My cheek stung, my body flinching before my brain caught up.

“What the fuck?”

She shrugged, unbothered, and pressed her head to my shoulder, wrapping an arm around me in a quick squeeze. “I called your name five times. You were staring into the void like a Victorian ghost bride.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

“No biggy,” she murmured, releasing me. “Anyway, Claire’s roommates bailed on her. Said they’re going traveling or something. She either finds new people or loses the place.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.” Her cheeks went pink. “So, uh… she asked me to move in.”

“That’s great, T.”

“Right?” she beamed, then swallowed. “It’s a big two-bedroom apartment. Bedrooms on opposite ends. Own bathrooms. Living room in the middle. Tons of space.”

I nodded, only half listening. My gaze drifted over the ridge, over the mosaic of greens and sunlit gardens below, where people lived easy, floral-scented lives.

“So… what do you think?”

“To what?”

She nudged me. “To you taking the second room?”

I blinked at her. “Wouldn’t I cramp your style?”

She rolled her eyes and punched my shoulder. “Don’t be a dick.”

I didn’t answer right away. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I did. Too much.

The idea of leaving that house—of not walking on eggshells in my own skin, of having somewhere that might actually feel like mine—was enough to make my throat close up.

But wanting something that badly felt dangerous.

Thalia must’ve seen it, the hesitation flickering behind my eyes. She didn’t push. She just leaned back, exhaling smoke into the morning air, and said, “Come see the place. If you hate it, I’ll never bring it up again.”

The ride to my aunt’s was quiet. Not tense—just heavy. The kind of silence that builds in the hollows between people when there’s too much to say and no energy left to say it.

We turned off the main road and up the winding driveway.

The house loomed ahead, pristine and white, its Georgian columns casting long, accusatory shadows in the late afternoon sun.

The side entrance came into view, the one reserved for staff and deliveries—a backdoor for the inconvenient parts of the household. Like me.

The lawn was edged so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. White roses flanked the front walkway in two perfect rows, their petals like little clenched fists. Even the flowers here felt like they were holding something back.

Thalia whistled low under her breath. “Jesus. Looks like a crime scene in a Nancy Meyers movie.”

“Don’t let the landscaping fool you,” I muttered. “The body’s still warm.”

She snorted. “Morbid. I like it.”

We followed the stone path toward the pool house, the one that had been converted into my ‘suite’—a nice word for the farthest possible corner she could shove me into without legally abandoning me.

“I’ve only been here a couple times,” Thalia said, her boots clicking on the stones. “Cocktail soirées. Charity luncheons. My mom in pearls. All the usual trauma.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“Oh, it was. I learned what paté was and how to smile while being insulted by three women named Margot.”

I unlocked the door and gestured inside with a flourish. “Welcome to my personal purgatory.”

She stepped in, sniffed, and immediately wrinkled her nose. “Why does it smell like a church and chlorine had a baby?”

“Bleach and disapproval,” I said flatly, tossing a bag onto the bed. “The ambiance is very ‘failed boarding school for the emotionally stunted’.”

She flopped on the bed, limbs splayed like a starfish. “Wow. You really know how to live.”

“That’s why I never invited you over. That and the risk of my aunt interrogating you and reporting back to your dad about the delinquent you were seen with.”

“Aww. You were protecting me.” She clutched her chest. “Sin has a heart after all.”

“Fuck off.”

She grinned, then started flicking through her phone and I started packing.

It didn’t take long—I didn’t have much. A few clothes. My beat-up iPod. The new black jersey sheets I’d ordered and never opened. Everything else stayed. None of it was really mine.

By the time I was done, Thalia was watching me from the kitchenette, cigarette smoke curling around her. “You sure about this?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but was interrupted.

“Leaving, then?” The voice was sharp, clipped.

My aunt stood in the doorway, perfectly ironed as always. Every strand of hair coiled into place. Not a smudge of eyeliner out of line. A mannequin with teeth.

“I am,” I said without looking at her.

She scanned the room like she was tallying up the damage. “You walk out that door, you are no longer part of this family.”

“Cool. Should I leave my collar and chain on the bed, or…?”

Her eyes narrowed, but her voice stayed ice-cold. “You’re lucky I took you in after your parents were done with you.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. I shouldn’t have cared about the people who brought me into this world. Not when they’d never cared about me.

I clenched my jaw. “Why did you? Huh? It’s obvious you didn’t want me.”

“I had a duty to my family,” she said, coldly. “I tried to fix you. But you’re beyond repair. I don’t hold out any hope. From what I’ve heard, you won’t keep that job much longer.”

The floor felt like it shifted slightly beneath me. My stomach dipped. That was the first I’d heard of my job being in jeopardy. Timothy was an asshole, sure—but did he have that kind of pull?

She didn’t scream. Didn’t make a scene. Just delivered each word like a scalpel, slicing skin with practiced, painless precision.

Once she’d finished, she turned and walked away. No hug. No goodbye. That was her answer. The final tether with my family was severed.

The apartment was nothing like the antiseptic white hell I’d just left.

It was loud. Lived-in. Still half-unpacked from Thalia moving in.

A third-floor walk-up in an old building that creaked like it had stories to tell.

The hallways smelled like old books and curry from the family downstairs.

One of the windows had a spiderweb crack in the corner that caught the light just right.

The ceilings were high. The walls were white brick. A sliver of the skyline peeked through the window in my room, and I could just barely hear the hum of the city. Not the rich part. The other part. The real part. One where I felt like I might actually fit in.