Only the lovely, p.1
Only the Lovely, page 1
Only the Lovely
The Sinful State Series
Book 3
Isabel Jolie
For those who trade clicks for credibility, and choose truth over tribe.
“It’s a pity nobody believes in simple lust anymore.”
* * *
—Ava Gardner
* * *
“Of the seven deadly sins, lust is definitely the pick of the litter.”
* * *
—Tom Robbins
Contents
Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Afterword
Gratitude
Also by Isabel Jolie
About the Author
Playlist
“Earned It” - The Weeknd
“Golden” - Jill Scott
“Diamonds” - Rihanna
“Adorn” - Miguel
“Secret” - The Pierces
“Secrets” - OneRepublic
“Stay” - Rihanna
Chapter
One
Adrien
The last thing I expected on a random Tuesday was Alicia Morgan demanding an emergency meeting. I despise being summoned, but when the Scandal Queen clears her schedule, someone’s world is about to implode.
The storm system hovering over the city lends a dark haze to the sky, rain pelting the glass. Fitting for a morning hampered by jet lag and a meeting my sister, Margot, insisted I take.
“I vote we order in,” Tommy says, ankle crossed over his knee, arm draped across the Chesterfield sofa like he hasn’t a care in the world. He wouldn’t—Alicia didn’t demand his presence.
I rub my eyes, debating whether to have more caffeine or an intravenous hydration drip. It’s Manhattan—there must be one nearby. Maybe if I hadn’t had that third scotch on the plane…
“News says subways are flooding.”
“Since when have you taken the subway?”
“Fair. Still, I can’t walk into court with soaked trousers.”
I press the desk phone. “Can you bring in menus? We’ll order lunch.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
Tommy leans back. “So Margot’s dictating your schedule. Aside from being a thorn in your side, how’s she doing?”
“She’s well. Busy.”
I hesitate. “She asked about you,” I add, though I shouldn’t.
There’s a rap at the walnut door. “Come in.”
A young woman, an administrative temp, enters, beige skirt suit, nervous hands shaking menus.
“You can hand those to the judge,” I say.
Tommy barely glances as he takes them.
“Sir, your twelve o’clock is here. Ms. Alicia Morgan. Should I ask if she’d like to join you for lunch?”
“No. We’ll be done before the food arrives.”
The click of heels announces her before the door opens. To hell with the weather—she’s immaculate in ivory Givenchy and Prada heels, hair a dark wave, eyes a sharp blue that take in everything at once.
“Alicia Morgan,” I say. She’s the founder and CEO of Morgan & Company, a crisis communications firm. From what I’ve heard, she’s the one everyone from celebrities to presidents go to when things go tits up.
“Judge Brennan,” she greets Tommy, before adding with smooth authority, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m short on time. This conversation needs to be private.”
“I’m going,” he says, and slips out.
I round my desk. Alicia commands the room, something I’ll allow, as from what I’ve heard, you want her on your side. “Can I get you—”
“No, thank you.” The words cut, but the smile that follows is practiced and bright. It softens the edge just enough to remind me she’s not all steel.
She opens a pale leather briefcase and passes me a folder. “I need you to confirm whether these photographs were taken inside your club.”
The Sanctuary. My chest tightens. Discretion is its foundation—no phones, no cameras. If this trust is breached, everything I’ve built crumbles.
I flip through black-and-white prints. A man on a sofa. A woman straddling a blurred figure. Too intimate, too familiar. I study the headboard, the chains. Suite 7A.
I close the folder and set it on the table between us. “Where did your client get these?”
“He’s being blackmailed.”
“Who knows?”
“Right now? Just him. Let’s keep it that way.”
When she reaches for the folder, my hand comes down over it, stopping her.
“You must know I intend to find the source,” I say.
“Unless you’re the extortionist.”
I flinch. “I don’t need money, Ms. Morgan. My reputation—and my business—are inviolable.”
“Your sister said you’d never risk this club’s reputation. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
Of course Margot vouched for me. “What did you tell her?”
“That if this isn’t handled, your business goes under. Simple as that.”
No wonder Margot insisted.
“I need everything you have.” My employees. Everyone is a suspect.
“My client believes he’s not the only victim,” she says, sliding the folder out from under my hand and drawing it back toward her. “We’re meeting with an investigative team Friday. I want you there.”
“That’s four days.”
“There’s no demand yet. This was a preview.”
Her client must be political. A divorce. Exposure. Influence at stake.
“I’ll work with your team—on one condition. I take the lead on matters concerning the club.”
Her eyes narrow. “This folder is one piece of a much bigger case.”
“And I’ll root out the leak. If the leak isn’t the extortionist, the leak will lead you to the source. One team. My lead.”
A pause. “I can live with that.” She stands. “If I can move the meeting up, I will. Assume your schedule is flexible.” The tone is clipped, but when her gaze meets mine, there’s a flicker of something else—resolve that feels personal. She’s fighting for her client, yes, but also for principle.
“Send me everything—metadata, angles, locations.”
“These files aren’t moving. You want the digital assets, you come to me. Tomorrow. Eight a.m.”
When the door shuts, I stay where I am, staring out at the storm-darkened skyline. Three years I’ve poured into The Sanctuary—every detail perfected, every indulgence crafted, every weakness anticipated. It was meant to be untouchable, a refuge of discretion. Now someone intends to twist it into leverage, into a weapon. They picked the wrong business to undermine—and definitely the wrong man to cross.
I stand and walk to the windows, forehead nearly touching the cool glass. To some, the club offered exclusivity and connections. To others, the place offered velvet and shadows, elusive aromas, and silk against skin in darkened corners. I’d always understood what I was building: not just exclusivity, but permission. Permission to want—and act within the protective walls—without consequence.
And someone corrupted it. Turned sanctuary into weapon.
Chapter
Two
Adrien
Friday morning, Senator Crawford passes through security in the nondescript midtown Manhattan office tower minutes after I do. At the elevator bank, I watch him approach. No one in the lobby gives him a second look. For a man in the middle of a high-profile divorce, I’d have expected greater name recognition. Apparently, he’s less familiar to the public than a C-list celebrity.
His gaze flickers with recognition. I scan the suits in the lobby again to confirm no one’s paying attention, then extend a hand. “Good to see you,” I say, deliberately omitting his title. No reason to draw ears.
There are dozens of businesses in this office tower. Visiting Morgan Publicity doesn’t, in itself, mean anything. Still, I know how quickly rumors spread in Manhattan, and I prefer not to be the spark.
“Adrien,” he says, shaking my hand with practiced warmth, holding my eye just long enough to project sincerity.
I wonder—do they all take the same course in charm at whatever academy breeds senators?
The elevator dings. We ride in silence with three others to the sixty-first floor.
David Crawford’s problems are legend: an ugly divorce and a chief of staff recently convicted of selling secrets to the highest bidder. Conveniently, the man declared the senator had no knowledge, and the authorities agreed. Still, guilt by association stains. Public perception is rarely me rciful.
The photos make sense now—desire as liability. In his world, lust isn’t pleasure. It’s ammunition.
No wonder he doesn’t want illicit photographs surfacing. What I don’t yet know is whether the blackmailers want money—or something more strategic.
I’ve already checked: seven Sanctuary security employees were on duty when the videos were filmed. All seven were hired before my acquisition. Expansion took me abroad, and somewhere in my absence, someone let entrepreneurial instincts run feral. Whoever it is has now put everything at risk.
The elevator empties floor by floor until only the two of us remain.
“You don’t travel with security?” I ask.
“Secret Service doesn’t cover senators unless there’s an active threat.”
Meaning: to disclose the threat, he’d have to admit he’s being blackmailed. He’d rather not.
A white oak door opens beside the reception desk. A sharp-eyed woman with glasses glances up as Alicia Morgan crosses the lobby to meet us.
“You’re right on time,” Alicia says. “The others are already in the conference room.”
Today she’s taupe from head to toe, her dark hair in an elegant chignon, gold catching light at her throat and wrists. Polished, poised—a walking seminar in optics.
“David, before we go in,” she says, crisp and measured, “you are the client. If you don’t want to answer something, look to me. If you need a sidebar, take it. The KOAN team works for us.”
“As a reminder,” I say, “they also work for me. I’m paying the bills.” David frowns, questions flickering across his face. “This can do as much damage to my business as yours.”
“I’m not sure I agree with you there,” he replies, southern charm fraying around the edges.
“If you want these investigators inside my club, this is the arrangement. My covering the bills also spares you the headache of explaining line items in your finances.”
“No one tracks my personal finances,” he bites out.
“Even so,” I say evenly, “you’re my client. Your privacy has been breached. When we meet this team, I intend to take charge.”
Alicia’s scowl is quick and sharp.
“Of the investigation into the club,” I add. “PR, narrative, countermeasures—that’s your arena. But how the breach happened? That’s mine.”
David inclines his head, satisfied. I look to Alicia. “I’ve never heard of KOAN. If I don’t believe they’re capable, I’ll bring in someone who is.”
“They put my former chief of staff behind bars,” David says. “They’re capable.”
Interesting. The senator approves of the people who gutted his staff.
“You didn’t bring anyone from your team?” Alicia asks, leading us down a carpeted hall.
“No. I don’t know who I can trust.” Margot knows something occurred, because Alicia called her, but she doesn’t know specifics. Tommy knows I’m dealing with a leak, because he’s Tommy. Again, he doesn’t know specifics. Beyond that, silence. A senator’s career is at stake, but so is the future of what I’ve built.
We stop at a pair of white-stained wooden doors. Alicia pauses, hand on the handle. “Are we good?”
Crawford and I nod. She pulls the door open.
David enters first, then Alicia. I follow—and the room rises for the senator. Greetings, handshakes, the shuffle of chairs.
A man in a dark suit with sharp eyes and a trimmed beard introduces himself as Hudson Stone, KOAN’s managing director. Beside him stands a tall man with a shaved head. But it’s the woman next to them who erases the air from the room.
Blonde hair, sleek and straight, parted and tucked behind one ear. Eyes the blue of the Mediterranean—
The scent hits me first. Jasmine. Not perfume—something lighter, more intimate. Shampoo, maybe, or body oil. The same fragrance that clung to the yacht’s sheets; the same fragrance that I searched for in every hotel lobby and high-end boutique for months after. In Monaco casinos. Paris perfumeries. London art galleries. Always chasing a ghost.
Sophie.
Every concern about The Sanctuary vanishes under the weight of memory: Monaco, moonlight, the weekend I thought I stumbled on something authentic in a life built on carefully constructed facades.
The intimacy Crawford hides in shame, I remember as something else entirely—desire that felt unmanufactured, uncorrupted. The difference between appetite and connection.
Three years searching. Six months of investigators scouring Europe for an art consultant who didn’t exist. The search turned up nothing. No passport. No employment history. No digital footprint. Vapor.
And yet here she is. In a conference room in Manhattan. Alive. Real.
Her eyes widen—yes, she recognizes me. And I’m unexpected.
She steps forward with professional composure, extending her hand. “Brie Anderson, KOAN Security.”
The voice—controlled, cultured, achingly familiar—strikes like a blow. I take her hand, electricity sparking through contact.
For an instant, we’re back on that yacht, her laugh carrying over the water, my certainty that I’d found something true in a life built on illusion. Her fingers tighten just slightly before she pulls away, mask intact. But I saw it—the widening of her eyes, the careful step back. She remembers.
“Mr. d’Avricourt,” she says, and the sound of my formal name in her voice nearly undoes me.
Heat crawls up my neck. Unprofessional. Unwelcome.
I force my breathing to steady, force my hands to remain still when what they want is to reach for her—to confirm she’s real, solid, here. The desire that surges through me feels intrusive, almost violent in its intensity.
I’ve spent three years learning to separate want from need, performance from authenticity. Built an international firm on understanding the mechanics of desire. And in three seconds, she’s reduced me to raw appetite.
I clear my throat. “Ms. Anderson.”
But she’s not Brie Anderson. She’s Sophie Dubois—the woman who disappeared without a trace, leaving me to wonder whether that perfect weekend had been real at all, or only another illusion—beautiful, fleeting, and gone.
Chapter
Three
Brie
Shock hits me with clinical clarity: throat tight, fingers trembling, vision narrowing. Training catalogs the symptoms, but nothing prepared me for this. I never thought I’d see him again, and now time itself feels fractured—slowed—while I stand outside myself, the lone observer.
I study him the way one studies brushstrokes in a painting only ever seen in textbooks. Subtle silver threads his dark hair, his beard trims the angles of a jaw I once knew bare, his suit immaculate. He looks nothing like the carefree man in sun-bleached linen with wind in his hair and salt on his skin. And yet—it’s him. Those eyes. Once rimmed in gold, catching every glint of light. Today they’re darker, green edged with suspicion, a man accustomed to wariness.
But beneath the wariness, I see heat. No, I feel it, pooling low in my belly, unwelcome and undeniable. I’ve spent my career learning to compartmentalize emotions, to treat my body as a tool. But some memories are too powerful to lock behind walls without cost. His jagged moans. The scrape of his five o’clock shadow against my inner thigh. The way he’d said my name in his sleep.
“Brie?” My colleague’s slight touch on my arm snaps me out of the initial shock of running across Adrien d’Avricourt.
I break free from Adrien’s locked stare and lean toward my colleague, seeking comfort in his steady presence while I gather myself.
