Sloane Monroe had always believed that if you were going to lie, you had to do it beautifully.
Ugly lies left trails—careless receipts, frantic phone calls, loose threads of guilt. But beautiful lies, the kind built with patience and precision, could pass for truth long enough to become it.
She sat at her vanity in the guest suite of Damon’s penthouse, the city glittering behind her reflection. She smiled thinking about how good it was to have options between staying at the estate or the penthouse.
The news anchor’s voice carried softly from the television:
“The Cross family has released a forensic report disproving the scandalous images involving Mya Cross…”
Sloane’s hand trembled just enough for her eyeliner to slip. She swore under her breath and dropped the pencil.
It was unravel
