Page 9 of The Lies Of Omission (Without Limits #3)

SIN

I pulled into the parking lot sideways and five minutes late, blasting No One Knows by Queens of the Stone Age like it could erase the fact that I’d thrown on my uniform in a blind panic.

My phone had lit up an hour earlier with a frantic call—someone had a “family emergency,” and now I was stuck with the dreaded three to eleven p.m. shift.

So much for a day off spent in bed, doing absolutely nothing and thoroughly enjoying it.

Brookhaven Ridge: come for the oppressive atmosphere, stay because capitalism is a gilded cage.

I slammed my car door shut and jogged toward the staff entrance, only to find Thalia perched on the back steps, one ankle hooked over the other, dragging on a cigarette like she belonged in a smoky European noir.

“They change your shift, too?” I asked, breathless as I reached her.

She exhaled a slow plume of smoke and gave me a crooked grin. “Yup. You look like hell, by the way.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere,” I muttered.

She smirked. “Claire said we’ve got a VVIP tonight.” She used air quotes around the acronym like it personally offended her.

I raised a brow. “Capital letters and everything?”

“Apparently, Timothy had a full-on meltdown. Theo’s been breathing down his neck, barking about excellence and precision. Now Timothy’s trying to scare the waitstaff into a collective anxiety attack.”

“Charming.” I glanced up at the club’s gleaming back facade. “Do we know who the guest is?”

“Not exactly. But they’ve triple-staffed the kitchen, the linens are new, and the private dining room with the lake view’s been set up like it’s hosting the damn UN.” She flicked her cigarette to the side. “Word on the floor? It’s a high-stakes business client.”

I gave a low whistle. “That explains the tight-ass energy bleeding through the walls.”

“Doesn’t it always?” Thalia grinned and stood, smoothing her skirt. “Come on, brat prince. Let’s go see what fresh hell awaits.”

“One of these days you’re going to tell me your story,” I said as we walked toward the locker room.

“You’re on. How’s tonight sound, after we clock out?”

I glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “The Hollow?”

“That easy?” she teased. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight. You seem like someone who has a lot of secrets.”

“I could say the same about you,” I shot back.

She smirked and stepped closer, pinching my cheeks between her fingers. “You’re not as dumb as you pretend to be.”

Affronted, I stepped away, arms crossing instinctively over my chest. Her eyes drifted to my exposed arms—my tattoos visible beneath the short-sleeved polo.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You act like an untouchable fuckboy,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I’m not saying you’re not, but there’s more to you than the attitude.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a finger, silencing me. “I haven’t told you the best part yet.”

“Hit me.”

“If I tell you my story, you tell me yours.”

“Well, shit. You’re beautiful and devious.”

She mock-curtsied. “Thank you. Now let’s get through this shift from hell.”

“It’ll be worth it. I love story time.”

“Fuck off.” She turned sharply and held the door open for me. “Let’s go.”

The dining room was already pulsing with quiet pressure when we hit the floor. Everything gleamed—glasses aligned like soldiers, silverware so polished you could floss with the shine. The atmosphere buzzed like static before a storm.

I slipped behind the bar to start prep work, pretending my stomach wasn’t doing cautious cartwheels.

“Watch your back,” Claire muttered as she passed, cradling a bucket of Bollinger like it was a newborn.

I barely had time to register her warning before I saw Timothy, marching in my direction like an avenging angel who got passed over for a promotion and never let it go. His eyes swept the bar like he expected to find it on fire.

“What can I get you?” I asked, as civil as I could manage.

He ignored the politeness, lips twisted in a sneer. “You’ve been briefed on the guests we’re hosting tonight, yes?”

“I’ve heard a thing or two.” I continued slicing limes, not bothering to meet his glare. “The place looks like it’s hosting royalty.”

He folded his arms. “Elias Ballantyne and his associates are currently out on the fifteenth green. They’ll be dining in the Lake Room.”

“O…kay?” I questioned.

He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something colder. “If you screw this up, it’ll be your last shift. Do you understand me?”

My mouth opened, then shut again. My heartbeat spiked in my ears. I was used to being dismissed and treated like trash by my parents, but his immediate hatred of me rubbed me the wrong way.

“I don’t know what your problem is with me, Timothy, but I’ve done nothing to warrant that threat. I do my job. No complaints, no incidents.”

He smiled, thin and joyless. “I have eyes, Sinclair. I miss nothing. And I’ve seen you. Just remember that.”

Before I could respond, he spun and walked off, the sound of his heels sharp on the floor.

Claire appeared again, grabbing some lemon slices. “What the hell was that about?”

“Honestly? No clue.” But my fingers trembled slightly as I finished prepping the garnish. I didn’t have time to stew.

The doors opened with a soft whoosh, and in walked Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop—two of the oldest and wealthiest members of Brookhaven Ridge, and the only ones who didn’t treat the staff like decorative wallpaper.

They looked exactly how you’d expect: refined, buttoned-up, like they stepped out of a Ralph Lauren campaign for the over-seventy-fives.

But they were kind—genuinely so. The type of people who looked you in the eye when they spoke and remembered things you told them weeks ago—small details, like your favorite drink or that your dog was sick.

Most people with that kind of money acted like they were allergic to basic decency. The Winthrops were the exception that disproved the rule.

Thalia smiled at them, her scarlet lips curling into something that almost passed for sincere. She didn’t smile often on shift—not the real kind—but she gave them one now, gliding across the floor like she didn’t want to stab someone.

Mr. Winthrop held his hand out to greet her, shaking hers with a warmth that tugged at something inside me. She exchanged a few pleasantries, showed them to their table, then came back toward the bar with a lightness to her features I hadn’t seen before.

“One bottle of Veuve Clicquot Le Grande for the Winthrops,” she said, grabbing a tray.

“Two glasses?”

“Please. You good to take it? I’m gonna run their order to the kitchen.”

“Yeah, got it.”

I watched her disappear down the corridor, then placed the champagne and two flutes carefully on the tray.

“Lovely to see you again, Sin,” Mrs. Winthrop said as I approached their table near the terrace doors, her voice as elegant as the pearls around her throat. “I see you’ve got your arms out today. What will Timothy say?”

I smirked. “He hasn’t noticed yet. But I’m sure he’ll have a monologue prepared.”

“Just ignore him, dear. He thrives on disapproval.” She winked.

I presented the bottle for her approval, uncorked it with a satisfying pop, and poured a taste. She sipped, nodded, and gave a contented sigh.

“Oooh, that’s lovely. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Focused on the rhythm of service, I drifted into autopilot. The hum of conversation became a low, familiar thrum—silverware clinking, glasses tapping, laughter that didn’t belong to anyone I knew.

I moved through the space like I always did—fluid, composed, sharp—but the second the hairs on the back of my neck lifted, I knew.

He was here.

I didn’t need to look up to know where Theo was. I could feel him, like gravity shifting the room. I could’ve mapped his position blindfolded.

What was it about him?

Dark brown hair, precisely styled, wearing a tailored suit that looked like it was born with him. That kind of look had never been my weakness. But Theo’s smoldering green eyes—eyes that flickered like dying stars—wrapped in shadows he didn’t speak of? Those were another story.

And then he looked at me.

Our gazes collided across the room, and the world dulled into grayscale.

It was just us. Me, behind the bar. Him, across the room like a storm held back by sheer will.

His eyes met mine like they were asking something, something I didn’t know how to answer.

Something I didn’t know how not to answer.

There was heat there—unspoken, suppressed, dangerous. And pain. Not surface-level stuff, either. The kind of pain you buried so deep you forgot it’s there until someone looked at you like they saw it.

He saw mine.

And I saw his.

It yanked at the part of me I kept hidden behind sarcasm and inked skin—the part that remembered what it felt like to be paraded around as a prop, not a person. A perfect little accessory for my parents’ ambition. Something that looked good in photos but never felt like it belonged in them.

Square peg, round hole. That’s what I was.

I broke the gaze before I could spiral. Shook my head and blinked back to reality, swallowing the ache in my throat.

He was just a guy. A cold, distant, frustratingly magnetic guy who walked like the world owed him space and respect. But he made me feel things I didn’t have words for. Not yet.

A sharp burst of laughter—too loud, too sharp, too hollow—cut through the air like a blade. Conversation in the restaurant faltered. Chairs scraped. Heads turned. Everyone looked toward the lobby to see what the hell had just blown in.

I didn’t.

I watched Theo.

His head whipped toward the sound like a missile locking on target. The flicker I’d seen earlier in his eyes—heat, curiosity, that ghost of something human—snuffed out instantly. His shoulders squared, jaw tightened, spine rigid with control.

In seconds, Theo wasn’t Theo anymore. He was the walking embodiment of legacy and ice. The manager of Brookhaven Ridge Country Club. Untouchable.