SIN SCENES

The air in Stan Ford’s study always smelled like old money and expensive sins. I stood by the mahogany desk, my fingers tracing the edge of a crystal tumbler I hadn't been invited to touch. In the reflection of the dark wood, my own face stared back at me—Onika Williams, a Black American girl with soft, light brown features that always seemed too gentle for a room this cruel. My hazelnut brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun—the kind of effortlessly chaotic look that took me forty minutes to pin perfectly in place—deliberately highlighting the golden-white lock of hair that framed my face. It was a genetic quirk I usually tried to downplay, but tonight it felt like a neon sign for trouble. Outside the heavy oak doors, the muffled sounds of the charity gala hummed through the estate. Somewhere down the hall, Cashe—my boyfriend, the golden-boy heir—was busy being the perfect son. Cashe was Jamaican-British, a breathtaking mix of London sharp and Caribbean warmth, with a crown of tight, beautiful curls that I loved to run my fingers through. He was gentle, sweet, and entirely too good for this world. Which probably meant he was going to die young or end up in a cult. But I wasn't with Cashe. I was trapped in the gravity of his father. Stan Ford didn't look like a man who spent his days signing corporate mergers. He was British royalty in the business world, commanding and tall, with thick, mahogany hair that caught the dim light of the study. He looked like an apex predator who designed the food chain. When he stepped closer, the space between us dissolved, and my lungs went completely flat. "You look terrified, little bird," Stan murmured. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that felt like a velvet noose. "I'm not," I lied, though my hands were shaking so violently the ice in my glass rattled. I was needy for security, desperate for someone to look at me and actually see me. Cashe looked at me like I was a prize he was proud to show off. Stan looked at me like an autopsy. And honestly? I was starting to think I preferred the dissection. "Good. Because fear is such a waste of your beauty." Before the lie could leave my lips again, his hand caught my jaw. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was absolute. There was no room to breathe, no room to negotiate. He tilted my face up, and then his mouth was on mine. It wasn't just a kiss. It was an eviction. He was taking space that didn't belong to him, claiming a girl who belonged to his own flesh and blood, and the sheer audacity of it left me completely paralyzed. But the worst part? It was incredible. It was a dark, dizzying masterclass that made my knees turn to water. If Cashe’s kisses were a gentle Sunday morning, Stan’s were a full-blown category five hurricane, and I was currently drowning with a smile on my face. When he finally detached himself, he didn't even look guilty. He just wiped a trace of my ruby-red lipstick from his lower lip with a stark, cold efficiency. I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My brain, entirely short-circuited by the trauma and the sudden rush of dopamine, offered a single, cynical thought: Well. Family reunions are going to be profoundly awkward from now on. And if I’m going to hell for this, at least I know the ride down is first-class. I cleared his hand away from my chin, checking my reflection to make sure the golden-white lock hadn't shifted out of its messy bun perfection. I cleared my throat, trying to find my dignity among the ruins of my morality. "Is this the part where you threaten to cut my inheritance, or do I just get a voucher for therapy?" Stan smoothed the lapels of his tailored suit, looking down at me with a dark, satisfied aura. He didn't even blink at the sarcasm. "Cashe will be looking for you," Stan said softly, turning back to his desk as if he had just checked the time instead of fracturing his son's entire future. "Don't keep him waiting, Onika." ~•~•~•~•~•~ The hallway outside Stan Ford’s study was blindingly bright, a stark contrast to the dim, mahogany-scented sin I had just left behind. I paused by a gilded rococo mirror on the wall, my heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I looked a mess. Well, a calculated mess. My messy bun was still holding together, and the golden-white lock of hair was perfectly framing my face, but my lips were a disaster. Stan had effectively wiped away half of my custom-blended ruby-red lipstick, leaving a blurred stain that practically screamed, I’ve just been thoroughly thoroughly unfaithful with your father. I fished my lipstick tube out of my clutch with trembling fingers. “Focus, Onika,” I muttered to my reflection. “If you look guilty, they win. If you look hot, you win. It’s basic mathematics.” "There you are!" I choked on my own breath, nearly shoving the lipstick tube up my nose. I turned slowly, pasting on the most innocent, dazzling smile I could muster. Cashe was jogging down the hallway, two crystal flutes of champagne balanced expertly in his hands. His tight, beautiful curls bounced slightly with each step, and his Jamaican-British charm was on full display, his smile warm enough to melt glaciers. He looked so incredibly wholesome, so entirely clueless, that a sharp pang of actual guilt pierced my chest. Great, I thought. The villain arc is off to a rocky start. I'm already feeling things. "I've been looking everywhere for you, babe," Cashe said, his London accent wrapping smoothly around the words as he handed me a glass. He stopped, his brow furrowing slightly as his eyes dropped to my face. "Your lipstick is smudged. And you look like you’ve just seen a ghost." "Not a ghost," I lied seamlessly, taking a massive gulp of the champagne. "Just your family’s tax returns. Truly horrifying stuff." Cashe laughed, a rich, genuine sound that made me want to crawl into a hole and die. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing the corner of my mouth to clean the edge of the stray red stain. It was the exact same spot Stan’s hand had held captive just sixty seconds ago. The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. "My dad didn't corner you about that charity foundation again, did he?" Cashe asked, looking toward the closed oak doors of the study with a protective glint in his eyes. "He can be... intense. Overbearing." "Intense is one word for it," I murmured, staring at the bubbles rising in my glass. Overbearing is another. World-shattering is probably the most accurate. "We just had a brief... alignment of interests." "Good. Because he actually asked to see me next," Cashe said, giving my waist a gentle squeeze. "He said he has some big news about my future in the company. Something life-changing." My stomach did a violent, nauseating flip. I took another sip of champagne just to keep from laughing hysterically. Life-changing was certainly an understatement. "Cashe," I said, my voice dropping into a rare moment of genuine vulnerability. I gripped his arm, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his suit. I needed him to stay. I needed him to be a barrier between me and the dark gravity pulling me back toward that study. "Don't go in there. Let's just leave. Let's ditch the gala, grab some greasy takeout, and never come back to this estate." Cashe blinked, caught off guard by the sudden desperation in my light brown features. He smiled softly, leaning down to press a gentle, sweet kiss to my forehead—right against that golden-white lock of hair. "I wish we could, little bird," he whispered, using the exact same nickname his father had used, entirely unaware of the knife he was twisting in my gut. "But it’s just five minutes. Watch my drinks. I’ll be right back." He turned and walked toward the study door. I stood frozen in the hallway, holding two glasses of champagne, watching my sweet, unsuspecting boyfriend walk straight into the jaws of the apex predator. And the worst part? I was already wondering what Stan’s mouth would taste like without the lipstick in the way.