Our Secret Sin

3:00 AM. The villa estate was as silent as a giant tomb.

Carrying my heels, I snuck into the sleeping manor like a thief.

The iron gates slowly closed behind me, shutting out the arrogant exhaust fumes of Annie’s Porsche, and sealing away a night of debauchery I definitely shouldn’t have indulged in.

I tried my best to stare at the cold stone path, barefoot, attempting to walk the straightest line of my life. Unfortunately, my feet weren’t cooperating. Every step felt like I was walking on marshmallows—sinking, floating, stumbling. Even my shadow, stretched long by the streetlights, looked drunk.

The air smelled of morning dew, but I was a walking cloud of tequila, mixed with that ambiguous, distinct scent of cigarette smoke and club sweat.

Ever since my vanity-loving, lottery-winning-luck of a mother snagged her current billionaire boyfriend, I—the standard “Charity Case” stepdaughter—had ridden her coattails straight to the top of the food chain. I adapted to this parasitic lifestyle with alarming speed.

What can I say? The rich life is endless parties and an unlimited buffet of male models. It’s hydrating for the soul.

Except for... him.

The thought of him made me instinctively clutch my Chanel jacket and the hem of my slit dress.

There was a distinct tear in the fabric—courtesy of a male model who got a little too handsy and reckless during the party. This was the smoking gun of my “fallen” night.

If I can just sneak back to my room and sew it up, no one will know...

I let out a small, alcohol-fueled hiccup and reached out to push the heavy oak door. Just let me survive the walk to my bedroom, and tomorrow I will be a brand new, wholesome Georgina.

However, fate clearly had beef with me tonight.

The living room wasn’t the sanctuary of darkness I expected. A single floor lamp was on. The dim, yellow light stretched the shadow of a man on the sofa, long and twisted, like a beast lying in wait.

My heart skipped a beat. It was too late to run.

Christian.

He sat in the solitary armchair in the center of the room. On the marble table in front of him, a crystal glass sat empty, surrounded by several wine bottles lying in disarray—a scene that looked like the aftermath of violence.

And he was the exquisite “murderer” in the center of the mess.

The black shirt that usually looked painted on his body was now unbuttoned at the collar. His loose tie hung like a tamed black snake against his collarbone. Those buttons, usually fastened with a frustratingly ascetic precision, had been violently torn open, revealing deep clavicles and a vast expanse of pale, tight chest muscle that rose and fell with his breathing.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

His long index finger knocked rhythmically on the table.

It wasn’t a casual beat. It was the countdown of the Grim Reaper.

I stared at that hand. The legendary “Golden Hand” of the medical world. Rumor had it that these hands were terrifyingly steady with a scalpel. I wondered if they were just as steady when strangling someone.

I am toast. RIP me.

I pinched myself hard, forcing my brain to reboot. Georgina, you are the obedient, sensible stepsister. You just moved in three months ago. You cannot die here.

I bit the bullet and walked in. While pretending to adjust my breathing, I stealthily tugged the ripped hem of my dress down, trying to cover the faint finger marks on my thigh, and pulled up my precarious neckline.

“Christian?” I squeezed out a smile that was probably uglier than crying, my voice dripping with fake sweetness. “What a coincidence. Just getting off work?”

I scanned his expression with my peripheral vision—good, he wasn’t looking at me.

“It is truly a blessing for patients to have someone as dedicated as you. You are the glory of the medical field...”

The flattery landed like a rock in the ocean. No reaction. He didn’t even lift those eyelids hidden behind his glasses. It was as if I were air.

Perfect! Time to bail!

“Well... it’s late. I won’t disturb your rest. I’m gonna go wash up and sleep!”

I held my breath, ready to grease my feet and sprint for the stairs.

“Freeze.”

One word.

The voice wasn’t loud, flat and devoid of emotion, yet it acted like an invisible noose, instantly tightening around my neck.

I froze in place, stiffly turning my head.

He maintained his lazy posture; not even an eyelash trembled.

“Coming back this late. Don’t you have anything to explain?”

Explain?

Excuse me, are we close enough for me to report my itinerary to you? We just live under the same roof; you aren’t the warden of my moral prison!

Although my inner monologue was screaming sarcasm, my body honestly turned around, and my mouth immediately launched into a fluent stream of bullshit:

“Oh, I went to a charity gala with Sarah today. You know how chatty those socialites are, it ended late. Then we swung by Ethan’s place to... hang out. Discuss art.”

Listen to that. So legitimate. So upper-class.

“Hanging out” was code for ordering male models and touching some abs.

Christian finally lifted his eyelids.

There was no focus in those eyes, just a bottomless abyss of black. The corner of his mouth hooked up into a smile that wasn’t really a smile. “Sarah? Ethan?”

I nodded like a bobblehead.

He gently swirled the empty glass in his hand. “And Kelly?”

“Kelly didn’t come today!” I blurted out without thinking. “Her boyfriend is super strict. She had to decline that kind of venue full of male mod— I mean, because of her strict upbringing...”

The air suddenly solidified.

I watched the smile on his lips deepen, carrying a look of pity reserved for the intellectually challenged.

...Fuck.

Georgina, is this mouth a rental? Are you in a rush to return it?

That was a suicide bombing.

Christian stood up from the sofa.

A massive shadow instantly engulfed me. He was tall, a full head taller than me. As his long legs carried him toward me, I smelled cedar mixed with faint alcohol, and that lingering, nerve-wracking scent of clinical sterility.

His gaze scanned me like an X-ray, landing precisely on the hem of the dress I was desperately trying to hide.

He reached out. His long fingers gently lifted the torn fabric, his fingertips brushing the skin of my thigh through the cloth, triggering a wave of goosebumps.

“Did you get this from doing charity work, too?” His voice was soft, but it made my blood run cold.

I flinched, trying to retreat, but my back hit the cold partition door.

Cornered.

He lowered his head, his nose hovering near the crook of my neck, and inhaled deeply.

The next second, his eyes turned freezing cold—the look of a doctor finding bacteria in a sterile zone.

“Smoke. Cheap perfume. And the sweat of other men...”

With every word, his finger wiped hard across my collarbone, as if I were a contaminated object. “Are you really that desperate?”

“I... I was just...”

“What male models...” He cut me off, leaning down, his cold fingertips pinching my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “...made you linger so long you didn’t even notice your clothes were ripped?”

Okay, he’s drunk.

If he weren’t drunk, this elite man with OCD and mysophobia would never get this close to me—close enough for me to see my own trembling reflection in his pupils.

“Th-there were no male models... You heard wrong.”

I turned my face away, trying to avoid his invasive gaze, attempting to duck under his arm. “I’m really tired, Christian...”

“Running away?”

He chuckled lightly. His long arm shot out, clamping precisely onto my waist.

Electricity shot up my spine.

His grip was strong, threatening to snap my waist, carrying an undeniable dominance as he slammed me into his hard embrace.

“If it wasn’t male models, then what was it?”

My eyes widened in terror, half my buzz instantly evaporating.

What is he doing? This is the living room! The maids could walk by any second!

“We have a top-tier feast right here at home...” His voice was low and husky, laced with a dangerous seduction. The tip of his nose grazed the shell of my ear. “Why do you insist on going out to eat trash?”