Page 4 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

THEO

M y father’s office was a cathedral of leather and old paper. The kind of room where secrets got buried under Persian rugs and oil paintings watched you like judges. Deals were made here that molded lives, built empires, and crushed dreams with the snap of his fingers.

He stood behind his desk, one hand resting on the edge like it belonged to him more than I ever had. The other curled around a crystal decanter, half-filled with a twenty-year-old scotch he never drank for pleasure—only ritual.

“I’ve spoken with the board,” he said, pouring two fingers into a glass—his, not mine. “You’ll begin management training at the club next week.”

No hello. No, how are you? Just a pronouncement, like I was already mid-move on a chessboard I never agreed to play. I might’ve lived a life many envied, but it was nothing more than a gilded facade—a gold-leaf cage wrapped around my throat, tightening with every breath.

It was suffocating. But I could never show weakness. That wasn’t the Astor way. We stood strong. Immovable. We weathered any storm and rose above it—cold, polished, untouchable.

“Of course,” I said, the words tasting like surrender.

He swirled the scotch but didn’t drink. Just watched the amber liquid catch the light as if it might reveal my worth in its reflection. “You’ll shadow Calhoun until Memorial Day. Then you’ll take over day-to-day oversight of the clubhouse by summer.”

I nodded once. There was no room for refusal. Only roles to inherit. A legacy to preserve. My life had never been mine to shape—just a well-maintained script passed down from one Astor to the next.

“And the gala?” I asked. I already knew the answer, but I gave him the stage anyway.

“You’ll run it,” he said. “It’s time you stop observing and start executing. Brookhaven Ridge looks to us to set the tone. This year’s fundraiser is pivotal—especially with the estate redevelopment plans moving forward. No missteps.”

His voice could cut glass. Precise. Unflinching. Like everything he said was law, and the penalty for deviation was erasure.

“Understood,” I murmured.

“You’ll work with the women’s committee. Secure the venue, the entertainment, the auction items. Your mother’s overseeing decor. I’ve already arranged a sponsor package from the Astor Foundation.”

Of course, he had. The man didn’t plan events. He orchestrated performances.

“And the guest list?”

He allowed himself a flicker of amusement—barely a twitch of the mouth. “Leave that to your mother. She knows who matters.”

Right. Who could be seen. Who could be trusted not to embarrass the Astor name by existing too loudly. The gala wasn’t about charity. It was about control. Power disguised as philanthropy.

He finally sat down, crossing one leg over the other. His shoes, polished to a mirror shine, caught the chandelier’s reflection like they were part of the furniture.

“You’re thirty-five, Theo. Time to start thinking about succession, not rebellion.”

I bit back a smile that wasn’t kind. “You say that like I ever rebelled.”

He looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t.

And don’t.” There was a heavy pause between his words.

A silence that stretched like a tension wire between us.

“You understand how this works,” he continued.

“We don’t choose our lives. We inherit them.

Our legacy is built on discipline, not indulgence. On endurance, not desire.”

I didn’t answer. Just looked at him, stone-faced, while the weight of every unspoken truth I’d buried inside me pressed down like a second spine. I’d heard the lesson a thousand times. In boarding school. In private lounges. In the way conversations stopped when someone stepped outside the lines.

Marry well. Host with grace. Smile with sincerity.

But never, ever , want anything that couldn’t be leveraged into power.

He stood again—dismissal without dismissal. “You’ll be at the club on Monday at eight a.m. sharp. Wear the navy suit. Black is too severe for summer management.”

I turned to leave.

“Theo.”

I paused, hand on the brass doorknob.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “You’ve done what’s expected.”

It should’ve meant something. Should’ve filled me with a warmth beneath my ribs. But it didn’t. Because from him, pride never sounded like love. Only achievement. Duty. Control dressed up as legacy.

I left without replying.

When evening fell, I was halfway across town, stepping into the one place he’d never dare to follow. The Hollow was a loud, low-lit dive bar where bad decisions bled out into the parking lot thanks to the door hanging off its hinges.

It reeked of spilled whiskey, sweat, and something darker. Freedom, maybe. Or the illusion of it.

My father would have dropped dead on the spot if he knew I was within a mile of this place. Which, I suppose, was half the appeal.

I stood outside for too long. Like a man caught between instinct and obligation.

Like a coward, if I’m honest. The music thumped through the walls, the bass a second heartbeat under my skin.

I didn’t belong here. I knew that. Everything in me had been tailored to another world—pressed shirts and polite smiles, curated charm and practiced silence.

But something inside me pulled me here. A quiet, aching thing I’d shoved down for too long.

That’s when I saw him. He was a fire in the middle of it all. Burning too hot, too wild. Untamed. Unapologetic. A black star with a gravity all his own.

And me? I stood at the edge of that event horizon and leaned closer. I should’ve left. But I stepped inside instead.

Heat hit first, then the noise, followed by the smell—cheap alcohol, cologne, cigarette smoke, and a hundred years of desperation ground into the floorboards.

No one noticed me. Not at first. Not until I made it to the bar, brushing past bodies that reeked of Friday night delusions and the thrill of forgetting.

I ordered a scotch. Neat. The bartender didn’t blink—just poured, slid the glass my way.

That was when he looked at me. I felt his gaze like a punch to the chest. And I was incapable of looking away.

Up close, he was worse. Better. Devastating. He moved like sex and danger had a lovechild and then taught it how to swagger. Tattoos. Black curls. A mouth made for trouble. He wore his sins like armor, and I… I wanted to touch them.

He dragged a cigarette to his lips, lit it with the kind of leisure that should’ve been illegal. And smirked at me.

“Didn’t peg you for a Hollow kind of guy,” he said, smoke curling lazily between us.

His voice was gravel and velvet. And I hated how my body reacted to it. I swallowed my discomfort with a sip of scotch. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who made an entrance by setting the place on fire.”

His grin widened. “Stick around. I’ve got more matches.”

My traitorous heart stuttered. My mouth moved before I could stop it. “You’re new.”

His expression shifted, subtle. Eyes narrowing like I’d thrown cold water on him. “Wow. So much for flying under the radar.”

“I’m not here to judge,” I said quickly.

“Then what are you here for?” he taunted, the tip of his tongue teasing across his teeth. My dick twitched at the sexual move that came as easily as breathing to him. “Slumming it? Looking for blackmail material?

Good question. I didn’t really know what to say, anything but the truth. “Observation. Curiosity.” I let my gaze drop to his drink, then back to those storm-colored eyes. “Maybe a little damage control.”

He raised his glass in a mock salute, bitter amusement dancing on his lips. “You’re too late. The damage is already done.”

That hit harder than it should have. The echo of his words reverberated through my bones. I looked away for a beat, collecting myself. Because being near him made the mask I hid behind slip. And I couldn’t afford that—not here, not ever.

“You might want to pace yourself,” I said finally, softer this time. “Brookhaven Ridge has long memories.”

He laughed. It was sharp, real, and something I’d never heard at one of my parents’ galas.

“Good,” he said. “Let them remember me for something real.”

There was something under that—something bruised but still breathing. Something alive. I couldn’t look away from it—from him. I set my drink down. Straightened. My coat was still draped over one shoulder, even now. A reflex. A shield.

“I’ll see you around,” I offered all I could while starving myself of oxygen in his presence. “Try not to burn this place down before Monday.”

“Can’t promise that,” he murmured, cigarette between his lips.

I turned and walked away before I did something stupid. Like stay. Like lean in. Like want. I didn’t look back, because if I had, I might not have left. But I felt his eyes on me like a brand that would be forever etched into my skin.

The door swung shut behind me, cutting off the music, the laughter, the heat of him. I staggered to the railing, clutching it like a lifeline.

The night air was cold and sharp, like punishment. I sucked it down too fast, chest rising and falling like I’d just run a mile. My hand braced against the solid wood, palm scraping the rough, splintered edge. But it was the only thing grounding me. Because everything else was spinning.

He was all I saw—his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was a game he already knew how to win. I pressed a hand to my sternum, fingers digging into my chest like I could physically hold it all in. The want. The shame. The need.

You can’t want this.

I’d spent a lifetime building walls. Perfect posture. Perfect grades. Perfect lies. My father never had to say the word disgust —he could speak it in silence. In the pause after the word different . In the way he looked past a man’s smile to judge his handshake, his wife, and his family name.

I couldn’t be this. I couldn’t even want this.

But I did.

God help me, I did .

My slick hand slid off the rail as I hunched forward, palms braced on my knees like I could hold myself together if I just stayed small enough. Breathe in. Breathe out. But the panic was thick and wet, clinging to my ribs, coiling like smoke in my lungs. It burned going down.

The air felt thin, distant. My throat was tight. My pulse a drumbeat in my ears. My heart clawed at my ribs like it wanted out.

There was no tie around my neck, but I could feel one anyway, a phantom pressure. A noose made of expectations. My shirt stuck to my back, too warm from the bar, too cold from the night, too wrong all over. Everything was wrong.

I wanted to scrub him out of my head.

The smirk. The confidence. That crooked tilt of his chin like he didn’t owe the world a damn thing. The way he looked at me like he wanted to drag me into the dark and peel back everything I’d spent a lifetime stitching together.

It wasn’t just lust. God, I wished it was. Lust would be easier to bury. Lust didn’t make your bones ache with longing.

It was how I felt when his eyes met mine.

Seen .

Like he’d look past my last name and straight into the quiet, cold corners where I kept the real parts of myself locked up. Like he knew what I was, what I wanted—and didn’t judge me for it.

It terrified me. And for a sick, splintered second…it thrilled me.

I stayed like that too long, bent doubled in the parking lot of a bar I should’ve never walked into, trembling like a kid who’d touched fire for the first time and realized how badly he wanted to be burned.

Someone might’ve seen me. I didn’t care.

Eventually, I staggered to the car, my steps uneven, legs shaky. I fumbled the keys like my fingers belonged to someone else, finally jamming them into the ignition.

The engine roared to life, but it felt distant, muffled, like everything else. I rolled the windows down and drove through the dark with the wind lashing my face, desperate to let it strip me clean. To pull the memory of him out of my head like poison. But it didn’t.

He was still there.

Every neon sign ghosted his silhouette. Every stoplight pulsed like the curve of his grin. Every stretch of asphalt bent into the rhythm of his body, dancing to music I couldn’t hear but still felt in my bones.

By the time I reached the gates of the country club, the night had gone unnervingly still. The world around me—manicured hedges, marble statues, the glint of security lights—was pristine, polished, perfect. Controlled.

Like me.

Or the version of me they all believed in.

The gravel whispered beneath my tires. The estate loomed at the end of the drive like a silent accusation: three stories of wealth and legacy tucked against the edge of my father’s kingdom. His house was deeper in the woods, fortress-like. But this one was mine. The Astor heir’s own quiet cage.

From the outside, it looked like success. Inside, it was just me. And Winston.

He was waiting at the door, silver tail flicking, meowing like I was late for something more important than duty. His paws padded softly across the marble as I bent to greet him. For a moment, I let myself lean into the warmth of his body against my legs.

“Miss me?” I whispered.

He blinked up at me, slow and ancient, like a monk who’d seen too much and said nothing.

I slipped off my shoes and walked barefoot down the hall, each step echoing like a ghost behind me. Winston stayed close, our shared silence louder than anything my father had ever said.

The house was a showpiece—clean lines, sleek furniture, priceless art.

A museum of a life that didn’t fit. The fireplaces hadn’t been lit in months.

Most of the rooms still smelled faintly of fresh paint and disuse.

I fed Winston, watched him eat, then poured myself a drink I didn’t want but needed.

The library was the only room that felt like mine.

Quiet. Still. Lined with books I’d actually read, not just shelved for optics.

I collapsed into the leather armchair, the one corner of softness in a house full of hard edges.

Winston leapt onto my lap, curled into a purring crescent of comfort against my chest.

His weight grounded me. Barely. I stared at the unlit fireplace, drink forgotten in my hand. And there he was again. That laugh. That sway. That impossible, maddening smile.

I squeezed my eyes shut. But it was too late. He’d cracked something open inside me. Something I’d buried so deep, even I didn’t know where to begin finding it again.

And God help me—I wanted to. But wanting was dangerous. Especially for someone like me, when the cost was everything.