Page 32 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)
I could find the words later. I just had to survive this first.
Brookhaven Ridge Country Club rose in front of us like a temple—built not for worship, but for preservation. Of bloodlines. Of wealth. Of image.
Gold-accented limestone, sweeping glass windows, and doors held open by staff in white gloves. Inside, light refracted off crystal chandeliers and polished silver, casting long, glittering shadows over high-society smiles and champagne flutes.
It reeked of power and old money masked as charm.
A valet opened my father’s door. I followed behind him, feeling more like a prop than a son.
Conversations quieted just long enough for our presence to be acknowledged, then resumed with new fervor.
Heads turned subtly. Phones lifted under the pretense of candid photos.
The event wasn’t about us, not officially. But everyone was here for this.
The Astor-Vanderbilt deal. Even if no one would ever admit it aloud.
As Father disappeared into a conversation with a hedge fund titan and his second wife—talking like gods among insects—I peeled off, drowning in suffocating laughter and false niceties.
I made for the garden, desperate for air to fill my lungs. And then I saw her through the waning crowd—Rosalie Vanderbilt.
She stood near a grand piano just inside the doors that opened out to the rose gardens, mid-conversation with a woman in a sapphire sheath dress.
She looked like every inch of her had been designed for a Vogue cover—gray eyes sharp and unreadable, blonde waves soft against her skin, posture elegant without being delicate.
She was beautiful. Devastatingly so—even I could appreciate that. I just hoped she was trapped in this world, too, like me.
Her eyes found mine across the room, assessing with surgical precision. No surprise. Just tired recognition and resigned acceptance like she’d been bracing for this meeting her entire life. The truth was, she’d been groomed for this day since the moment she was born.
I crossed the floor toward her, and like some unspoken choreography, she met me halfway. Cameras tilted. Whispers rose like smoke behind hands and crystal glasses.
She offered her hand, head tilted in mock politeness. “Theodore Astor. We finally meet.”
I took her hand and offered her the same mask I’d been wearing since I could walk. “Miss Vanderbilt. You look lovely tonight.”
She gave me a look—somewhere between dry amusement and thinly veiled disdain. “Are we really doing titles? Do you want me to curtsey too?”
I smirked without feeling it. “Just trying to make the headlines clean.”
She let out a sound that might have been a laugh, short and hollow. “Oh, don’t worry. They’ve already written the story. We’re just here to act it out.”
We stood in a perfect picture frame—two heirs to legacies we never asked for, surrounded by eyes pretending not to watch. The click of a camera shutter followed us like a breath behind our necks.
“You hate this too?”
“I hate most things,” I replied. “But this especially.”
Her expression softened the slightest degree. “Same.”
She didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t ask questions. Instead, she turned and led us outside toward the rose garden, where the lighting was perfect for staged romance and curated candids.
I glanced back. My father stood near the doors, watching, his approval stamped across his expression like a patent. He looked like a king finally getting his crown polished.
The moment we stepped into the garden, the air cooled. Lanterns glowed above us, suspended in the trees like captured stars. The music shifted into something orchestral and sweet, mocking the bitterness in my gut.
Someone called her name, but she ignored them. We made small talk. She was quick, witty, perfectly programmed. She quoted economics statistics and dissected art theory like someone who’d been trained to win debates before she could drive.
I laughed once—at a dry comment about how our families probably had a multipage contract drafted before we were born.
And then—flash. Lights burst around us like lightning. I blinked, half-blinded. And when my vision cleared, my lungs turned to ice. Sin was here, looking just like his name. Fuck!
Dressed in black, tray in hand, standing just beyond the stone railing. He wasn’t supposed to be working. He wasn’t supposed to see this.
But he did—he had . An invisible noose tightened around my neck as I cataloged every inch of him. His golden skin that had glowed under my fingertips not twenty four hours ago, turned pallid and pale.
His posture was a statue—rigid and cold. His eyes locked onto mine like a blade pressed to my throat. Fury and heartbreak warred in his expression. His lips were bloodless, drawn into a line so tight it looked painful.
I stepped forward. Just one step. As if I could reach out to him and explain that what he saw was not what he thought, but before I could get close enough, Thalia appeared at his side—always perfect, always on cue—and whispered something to him as she gently pulled him away.
He didn’t look back.
I couldn’t breathe.
“What was that back there?” Rosalie asked beside me, her voice soft and kind. I couldn’t speak. She tilted her head. “Want to get away from here?”
I nodded. I would’ve followed anyone anywhere in that moment just to get away from the hollow thud of my own heart.
She guided us down stone steps toward a quiet terrace corner, tucked behind climbing vines and stone pillars. Our fathers watched from a distance as we descended, trying to look disinterested, but failing spectacularly.
We sat on a hidden stone bench, moonlight catching in the shimmer of her gown. I gripped the cold stone edge like it might keep me from collapsing.
She didn’t speak right away, just studied me closely. “They’re using us like pawns.”
I nodded, staring up at the starlit sky. “They don’t even see us. Just our value.”
She looked at me. “What did they take from you?”
I turned toward her, blinking back at something sharp behind my eyes. “Everything that ever felt real. My freedom.”
She was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
I believed her. We sat there in our shared prison—silent, still, beautifully dressed, and drowning.