Page 8 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

That landed like a punch. My jaw clenched as the reality of what he said collided with the fantasies playing in my head, turning them to ash.

He didn’t understand. The pressure of expectation to be this perfect person when I was screaming inside to be anything but what I was.

He was wild, impulsive, and reckless, something I’d never been a day in my life.

Sin’s smile faltered—for just a second—but then it sharpened into something brighter. More brat than ever. He turned toward the door and sauntered out with a careless little wave over his shoulder.

“One of these days,” he said without looking back, “you’re going to snap.”

He didn’t say what he meant by snap .

But I knew.

Because I was already halfway there.

I collapsed into my chair and ran my hands through my hair in frustration, feeling the weight of the world crushing me.

My chest was tight, my breathing shallow and fast. Perspiration beaded on my brow and trickled down the back of my neck.

My hands trembled as I loosened my tie and undid the top button of my shirt, desperate for relief, for air—anything to feel like I wasn’t being buried alive in a coffin shaped like a country club.

The second the door snicked shut behind Sinclair, it opened again. I didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. The scent of department store cologne and a sour attitude gave him away.

“Sir,” Timothy said in a tone that suggested I was somehow beneath him despite the title, “what was he doing in here?”

I lifted my gaze slowly, steeling my features. “Who?”

“ Sinclair, ” he spat the name like it burned his tongue. “He should be in the restaurant. Not skiving off while the rest of us actually work.”

I straightened in my chair, spine pulled taut like a bowstring. I redid my tie, fingers shaking slightly under the weight of his judgment.

“He was passing along a message from table sixteen.”

Timothy’s jaw clicked as he clenched it. “If there was a complaint, it should have come through me. I am the assistant manager. It’s my responsibility to field any service issues.”

The sigh that escaped me was quiet but bitter, laced with a thousand things I couldn’t say out loud. It took everything in me not to roll my eyes at him and his blatant posturing.

“They weren’t complaining,” I said, voice flat. “They were offering compliments. Said the server was charming, and the service exceeded expectations. They asked for the owner to be informed.”

Timothy’s expression wavered for half a second before he schooled it back into smug superiority. He straightened his cuffs like he’d been the one praised.

“Good,” he smiled, already trying to claim the credit. “I told you the improvements were paying off.”

You told me? I almost laughed. Instead, I kept my eyes on the report in front of me, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack.

The truth was, I’d spent weeks—months—fighting through Calhoun’s crusted-over resistance and my father’s silent, suffocating indifference just to drag this place out of the last century.

Even before I officially took over, I was already doing the work.

The menu overhaul, the new supplier contracts, the pilot brunch events—that was all me.

Not Timothy. Not Calhoun, who spent more time on the green than mentoring me.

And certainly not my father, who only checked in to make sure I hadn’t run his legacy into the ground.

But I kept quiet. Because that was what was expected.

“I assume the decor refresh is still in limbo?” Timothy asked, already answering for me. “Calhoun won’t budge, you know. Says the chandeliers are ‘historic.’” He said the word like it meant ‘too expensive to touch.’

“I’m working on it,” I replied coolly. “We’re starting with the gallery lounge. New art. New seating. Small steps.”

Timothy scoffed. “As long as you don’t let him near it.”

I looked up sharply and raised my brow in question.

“Sinclair,” he muttered, eyes flashing. “You’re letting him get too comfortable. He’s loud, unprofessional, and disrespectful. You might think he’s harmless, but staff like that spread discord. Infectious. You’ll have the whole floor ignoring protocol before long.”

“He’s good at his job.” The words were out before I could stop myself. “The guests like him.”

“They liked the dancing monkey at the holiday party too,” Timothy snapped. “Doesn’t mean we gave it a permanent role.”

That one landed too hard. I stood slowly. “That’s enough.”

Timothy’s lip curled, but he backed off, posture stiff. “Of course, sir. Just doing my duty.”

He turned toward the door, but paused just before leaving. “Calhoun wanted me to remind you—you’ve got the Brookhaven Foundation’s rep calling at three. They want confirmation on the end-of-summer gala. You’re still hosting it here?”

“Yes.”

“Big night,” Timothy said, tone dubious. “Hope it’s worth it.”

He left with a satisfied little click of his shoes, like he’d won something. I sank back into the chair, hands curling into fists against the polished arms.

Timothy was a thorn in my side—disgruntled, petty, always looking for a fight. He hadn’t gotten over being passed up for the manager role, and it showed in every pointed comment, every sidelong glare. But I knew men like him. They dug their own graves one misstep at a time.

Let him feel smug today. Let him think he’d won a round. Because this wasn’t just a battle. I was playing for the whole damn war.

The Brookhaven Ridge Fundraising Gala was meant to be my first solo event under the club’s name. My chance to show I could run this place, shape it into something more than a relic of my father’s empire.

But already, it felt like another trap. Endless expectations.

Lists upon lists. Names I had to impress.

Faces I had to charm. Legacy donors with sharp smiles and sharper knives.

And worst of all—my father would be watching.

So would Calhoun. Every choice I made would be dissected and criticized under a microscope of tradition.

Failure wasn’t an option. But success didn’t feel like freedom either. It felt like another cage. Just a prettier one.

And in the middle of all that chaos was Sin. Brilliant. Rebellious. Uncontainable. A fire I couldn’t help but reach for, even though I knew it would burn me alive.

He didn’t fit here. Not with the brass and the crystal and the white enamel enforced smiles. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Because he reminded me of who I could’ve been. If I were braver. If I were free.

If I were anyone but me.

My phone buzzed against the mahogany desk, cutting through the spiral of thoughts clawing at the edge of my focus. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog, and answered without checking the screen.

“Theo Astor.”

“Theodore, darling. How are you?” My mother’s voice was warm and polished, the kind of gentleness that could disarm a storm or stab you in the back without you noticing.

“I’m fine, Mom. Just buried in work—planning things for the gala and keeping the club from falling apart.”

“That sounds brilliant. I’ve been meaning to ask—have you chosen a venue yet?”

“I have,” I said, glancing at the open spreadsheet on my screen. “I was going to call you later once I finished going over the financials.”

“You work too hard, sweetheart. Just like your father.”

That old comparison twisted in my chest. For some unfathomable reason, she still adored him, even though he was barely more than a ghost in her life.

Maybe it was easier to love the idea of a man than the man himself.

Still, she never waited around for him. She made a life, built her own world, while he was off building empires for everyone but us.

I envied her for that.

“How about dinner tonight?” she enquired. “Just you and me. Your father’s flying to D.C. for some board meeting. It’s been too long since you’ve been to the house, Theodore. People will start to talk.”

“I’m not sure I can?—”

“I’m not taking no for an answer, Theodore.” Her tone was soft, but edged with something sharp. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been avoiding me. Us. We have an image to maintain after all.”

The words hit harder than I expected, lingering like the sting of unsaid things. I hadn’t meant to avoid her. But lately, the idea of walking back into that house—with all its polished floors and cold silences—felt like swallowing broken glass.

“Don’t worry,” I exhaled. “I’ll be there.”

“Perfect.” I could hear her smile. “I’ll have Gillian make your favorite.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

As the call ended, I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Tonight would be another performance. Just like the club. Just like everything.

But at least with her, I didn’t have to pretend I wasn’t tired. She understood that everything in this life was a performance.