Lost in sin

Juliet’s POV

Nothing prepares you for the moment you realize your survival depends on the man who destroyed your family.

I sit in the boardroom pretending to take notes, but my mind is elsewhere, circling the same bitter thought over and over. Every paycheck I earn here carries the LaRusso name stamped into it, invisible but heavy. Like blood on clean hands.

“Juliet Romano, are you even listening to me?”

My boss’s voice cuts through the haze. I blink, lifting my head too quickly. The movement earns me a few curious glances from around the long glass table. The room is sleek, modern, cold, designed to intimidate. It works.

“Yes, sir,” I say, straightening my spine. I force a professional smile, even as my fingers curl tighter around my sketchpad. “I was reviewing the floor plan adjustments.”

He studies me for half a second, then exhales like I’m already exhausting him. “Good. Because this project cannot afford mistakes. The LaRussos are investing heavily, and Mr. Ryan LaRusso will be personally reviewing your presentation.”

The name lands like a strike to the chest.

Ryan LaRusso.

For a moment, sound dulls. My pulse roars in my ears. The LaRussos, the family that dismantled my father’s company piece by piece. The family that took our name from respected to ridiculed in a single brutal year.

And now their heir is walking straight into my workspace.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

By the time the meeting adjourns, my hands are trembling. I barely make it to my desk before setting my sketchpad down too hard and sinking into my chair. I close my eyes and breathe through the tight knot in my chest.

You’re fine, Juliet. He’s just another billionaire with too much power and too little conscience. He won’t remember your name.

“Juliet,” Mia whispers, leaning over the divider with barely contained excitement. “Did you hear the news?”

I already know what she’s about to say, but I play along. “Hear what?”

She looks at me like I’m joking. “Ryan LaRusso. He’s coming in today. Apparently, he’s taking over the New York branch.”

I force a laugh that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Good for him.”

Mia scoffs. “Good for him? The man’s practically royalty. Top schools, obscene money, and have you seen him? He looks like a Greek god who owns a private jet.”

I shrug. “You’ve seen one entitled man in a tailored suit, you’ve seen them all.”

But my stomach twists tighter, betraying me.

Because I have seen a LaRusso before. Years ago. The night my father staggered into our house smelling of whiskey and defeat, his hands shaking as he said, They stole everything from me, Jules. My company. My name. My life.

And now I’m expected to design luxury spaces for the same family?

No pressure at all.

The conference room later that day smells like polished wood, expensive perfume, and quiet arrogance. I stand at the front, clicking through my slides, hyperaware of every breath I take.

“…this design allows the east wing to maximize natural light while maintaining both luxury and sustainability,” I conclude, stepping aside.

Silence stretches.

Then a voice breaks it, low, controlled, faintly amused.

“Impressive. I didn’t expect this level of vision from… a Romano.”

My heart stumbles. Slowly, I look up.

Ryan LaRusso.

He’s taller than I imagined, his presence filling the room without effort. His black suit fits him like it belongs there, like the world was tailored around him. Dark eyes. Sharp features. The quiet confidence of someone who has never had to ask permission.

And he knows exactly who I am.

“I didn’t realize you knew my name,” I say, keeping my tone steady through sheer force of will.

A corner of his mouth lifts. “I make it a point to know everyone who works under me.”

Under him.

The words scrape something raw inside my chest.

His gaze lingers, assessing, calculating. “The design is bold,” he continues. “Different.” A pause. Then, almost casually, “You have your father’s touch.”

Something snaps.

“Don’t,” I say, before I can stop myself.

His brows lift slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t speak about my father like you knew him,” I say, my voice shaking now despite my efforts. “Your family ruined his career. You don’t get to...”

The air in the room freezes. I feel it instantly. Mia’s sharp inhale. My boss’s pale face as he clears his throat.

“Juliet...”

Ryan doesn’t interrupt me. He just watches, head tilted, expression unreadable.

“I didn’t ruin your father, Miss Romano,” he says calmly. “He did that himself.”

Then he turns and walks out.

No apology. No explanation.

Just ruin.

I remain rooted to the spot long after the room empties. My nails bite into my palms until the sting grounds me.

Who does he think he is?

When I finally step into the hallway, he’s there, leaning against the glass wall as if he’d planned it. As if he knew I’d come out shaking and furious.

“Fiery temper,” he says lightly. “Does that run in the family?”

I glare at him. “Why are you here? To humiliate me some more?”

“No.” His voice shifts, lower, heavier. “To say your design impressed me.”

I blink, thrown off balance. “You insulted my family in front of my colleagues.”

“That was business,” he replies. “This is personal.”

He steps closer, just enough. The scent of his cologne reaches me, dark, expensive, unsettling. My breath catches despite myself.

“Don’t mistake me for my father, Juliet,” he murmurs. “I don’t play his games.”

“Then what do you play?” I ask quietly.

A faint smile curves his lips. “The kind you’ll discover soon.”

And then he walks away again, leaving my heart racing and my thoughts in ruins.

That night, I find my father asleep on the couch, the television casting flickering light across his worn face. An empty glass of whiskey rests on the table.

Nothing has changed.

I gently move the bottle away, watching his chest rise and fall. I wish forgiveness came easier. I wish anger didn’t feel safer than hope.

In my room, I close the door and lean against it.

Ryan LaRusso.

The name alone feels like a warning.

I tell myself I despise him. That whatever spark flared between us was nothing but hatred.

But when our eyes met in that boardroom, it didn’t feel like hate.

It felt like fire.

As I turn off the light, something on my nightstand catches my eye.

A sleek black business card.

I don’t remember putting it there.

My pulse quickens as I pick it up.

RYAN LARUSSO — Private Line

Beneath it, a handwritten note:

We’re not finished, Miss Romano.

My fingers tighten around the card as the city hums outside my window.

And I understand something with chilling clarity.

This war between our families isn’t over.

It’s only just begun.