Page 40 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

SIN

T ime passed like static—days blurring into each other with a numb sort of rhythm, like my body remembered how to move even when my mind didn’t. Wake up. Breathe. Survive. Repeat.

I became an expert at avoidance. Sliding out of rooms seconds before Theo entered. Ducking down side halls. Refusing to look up. But my eyes betrayed me every time. Because I still watched him.

I watched him stand beside his father like a mannequin, every inch the heir. I watched Rosalie curl into his side like they were born to be photographed that way. I watched his eyes scan the room and never—not once—land on me.

And still, some warped, half-dead part of me hoped he’d turn around one day. Say my name and reach for me. But he didn’t. He never did.

“I’m fine,” I lied to Thalia one afternoon.

She didn’t dignify it with a response. Just elbowed me in the ribs hard enough to make me bite my tongue.

We were watching Theo trail behind his father like a good soldier. Rosalie draped herself around him, her blond hair catching the sunlight like a halo. She was the picture of cultivated grace. And I wanted to rip it all down with my teeth.

“He’s a puppet,” she muttered. “And you’re burning yourself alive, hoping he’ll smell the smoke and come running.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t—I’d start choking on the truth if I opened my mouth.

God. I made myself sick. I’d told him I wouldn’t wait. Yet here I was, a bleeding wound dressed up in my black staff uniform, praying he’d be the one to stitch me back together.

“Fuck my life,” I hissed, wiping a streak of sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm.

She looked at me, really looked, and something in her expression changed. “You need to get out of here, Sin. Before this place eats you alive.”

“You gonna miss me that much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re barely tolerable on good days.”

Declan barked out a laugh from somewhere behind us. “She dreams of a world without your emotional damage.”

“Eat shit,” I called back, trying to smirk, but my mouth barely moved.

Thalia’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re bleeding out. And you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” She stepped in front of me. “And you don’t have to be.”

My throat burned. “I can’t leave yet.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Because you’re still hoping he’ll save you?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. And that silence? That was my answer.

Thalia’s shoulders sagged. “Jesus, Sin. You were doing better before him. You were broken, sure, but you weren’t like this. You wanted something. You tried.”

I turned away from her, grabbing the dolly loaded with gold chairs, hands shaking as I pushed it toward the marquee. “I still want something,” I said under my breath.

“What?” she pressed.

I didn’t answer. Because what I wanted was impossible. What I wanted was him.

She caught up. “Sin,” she said, quieter now. “You know I love you, right?”

I stopped moving. Let the chair dolly roll to a slow stop against the grass. “You’re the only one who ever has.”

Her breath hitched. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” I whispered. “You’re the only one who’s ever stayed.”

Thalia touched my arm, grounding me. “I stayed because you let me. Because somewhere under all the sarcasm and trauma responses, there’s a real person. One who deserves more than this.”

“And yet here I am. Still hoping he’ll look at me.”

“He won’t.”

“I know.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, furious with myself. I didn’t cry. I didn’t do this. But loving Theo felt like carving myself open and asking him to fill the space—and he’d filled it with silence.

“If I stay, I lose everything that makes me me ,” I finally said.

“Then don’t stay.”

“I owe you for rent.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’d rather you owe me a future.”

Silence settled between us. The breeze picked up, carrying that sickly-sweet scent of roses and power. Across the lawn, Theo stood with his father, posture stiff, eyes unreadable.

I didn’t let myself look for long. I couldn’t. “I’ll leave after the gala,” I said flatly. “Get the bonus. Pack my shit, then I’m gone.”

Thalia’s jaw tightened. “I want to believe you.”

“Then believe me.”

“I do,” she said, too softly. “But you don’t.”

Later that night, we sat on the apartment floor, legs tangled, drinking from a bottle of three-dollar wine that tasted like regret.

“I think he broke something in me,” I murmured.

Thalia didn’t respond right away. She just reached for my hand. Held it tightly. “You’re not broken,” she said. “You’re just looking for someone who sees you the way I do.”

I laughed, bitter and breathless. “And how’s that?”

“Like someone who still deserves to be loved.”

My chest cracked at the edges. “I’m not sure if I believe in love anymore.”

She looked at me like I was the saddest thing she’d ever seen. “Then let me believe for both of us. Just for a little while.”

I nodded, because I didn’t know what else to do. My world had narrowed to this: Thalia’s grip. A flickering hallway light. And the knowledge that in three days, everything would change.

I’d walk away. Or I wouldn’t. And either way, the damage was done.

The club was alive, it buzzed like a wasp’s nest. Gold ribbon, elegant mood lighting, clinking glasses, clipped instructions from Timothy and Colhoun were pushing me to the edge of my sanity. The kind of cold efficiency you only got when wealth was weaponized.

I moved through the gathered crowds like a ghost. Pressed shirt. Polished shoes. Thin black tie that felt like it was strangling me. Members of the press circled; sharks that smelt blood in the water. Something big was going to go down tonight, but none of us knew what it was.

Everything inside me felt splintered. Like if someone touched me the wrong way, I’d crack down the middle.

“Hey.” Thalia found me near the back kitchen, balancing a tray of champagne flutes. Her lips were tight, her brows drawn. “Last night, remember? After the gala. You promised.”

“I remember.”

She studied me, wary. “You don’t look like you’re planning to follow through.”

I forced a smile, but it felt wrong on my face. “There’s a lot of that going around.” I spun on my heels trying to get away from her, the pressure too much to handle.

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked, her hand landed on my chest blocking my exit. “Don’t do this.”

“What?” I snapped, glancing around. I felt everyone was paying too much attention to us even though no one was looking our way.

“Try to fake it.” I huffed and shook my head in disbelief. “You are; you’re trying to push me away. You do that when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” I said.

“You’re terrified.” When I didn’t answer, she stepped closer. “Sin… don’t let him take this from you too.”

I opened my mouth to lie—again—but something stopped me. The truth pressed against the back of my throat like a scream.

“I saw him last night. On the back terrace. He was drinking, alone. And for a second, I thought—” My voice wavered.

“I thought he was gonna say something. Like the weight of it all was finally too much.” Thalia didn’t say anything.

She just waited. “I thought he was going to walk down those stairs, look me in the eye, and choose me,” I whispered.

She nodded once. “And he didn’t.”

“No.”

The tray in my hands trembled slightly. Her lingering touch grounded me. “Then let that be your answer.”

I swallowed hard. “I-I think I… love him.”

“I know,” she sighed.

“I hate him for it.”

“I know that too.”

The marquee was a glittering cathedral of wealth and false promises, draped in cream silk and strung with a thousand low-hanging Edison bulbs that glowed like dying stars.

The chandeliers above flickered with gold light, refracting off crystal wine glasses and the sharp edges of diamonds draped across collarbones like shackles.

Waiters drifted between clusters of power-dressed guests, their trays loaded with champagne flutes and tiny hors d’oeuvres that looked too perfect to eat.

Laughter rippled like a warning—thin, polished, and merciless.

The space was starting to fill with bodies. Politicians in sharp tailoring, tech investors with teeth too white to be real, old-money heirs who moved through the crowd with wolfish confidence. Everyone here wore masks, even if they weren’t visible. Some glittered with charm. Others with cruelty.

At the head of it all, standing beneath a spotlight on the raised stage like a relic on display, was Washington Astor and next to him, his ever-present shadow—Theo.

He was all sleek lines, black suit tailored within an inch of his soul, and dead silence radiating from him like a warning.

He looked like he’d been carved from marble, a mausoleum statue pretending to breathe.

A ghost with a god complex. The kind of man who could make entire rooms obey without raising his voice.

He didn’t notice me, but I could see the muscles ticking in his jaw. His knuckles bled white with tension.

A hush fell as they stepped up to the microphone. Washington’s voice slid through the tent like a razor wrapped in velvet.

“Good evening,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the marquee.

“Welcome to the Brookhaven Ridge End-of-Summer Charity Gala. This year, our support goes towards the Rosemont Institute—an organization dedicated to rehabilitating the city’s most vulnerable youth.

Children discarded by the system. Forgotten by society. Left behind by the rest of us.”

His words were honeyed. His mouth curled like he actually cared. But I knew better. I’d seen what lay beneath the mask. This wasn’t generosity. It was power laundering. Reputation management.

I took a slow step back into the shadows.

“After this,” I whispered to Thalia, my voice a wire stretched too tight, “I’m leaving.”

Her breath caught—just enough for me to notice. “I believe you,” she said. And this time, I knew she meant it. There was something fractured in her voice. Something quietly breaking alongside me.