Page 6 of Scarred Ruin

Now, we all had them. There were scores of people who enjoyed maligning Graham and Taylor out of scorn or fury that we’d been awarded a contract. Keyboard warriors were a part of doing business, but the intellectual comments alongside the ridiculous ones all pointed to one particular issue.

Criminal activity.

Of the mafia variety.

Words Hope had mentioned on the infamous night had popped into my mind more than once after my discovery. Too many very unusual sets of circumstances had plagued my normally quiet and comfortable world as of late. I wasn’t a believer in either karma or coincidences, but overall, it seemed as if some great power had determined my life should be infiltrated by danger.

The articles on Black Diamond Logistics were plentiful on certain business pages, but there were almost none on the man personally.

I’d tried to remind myself Black Diamond was only one of several companies involved as John had mentioned, but the dull ache behind my eyes wouldn’t allow my grasp of his heritage to slip. The reasons were clear.

One being what had occurred with the sweet little girl at the school, her uncle being Russian. While the incident involving the shooting remained fuzzy, a near abduction of a child I’d never met while I’d been walking to clear my head hadn’t.

Was it that same man, some mysterious Russian? Or instead, the still shadowy figure from the hit and run? Perhaps neither, but I was at the point of losing a portion of my sanity.

I laughed softly as I fingered my lips before grabbing my clutch. There was no chance of hiding for the entire night. However, I could make an appearance, cruise the room while keeping a plastic smile on my face, and leave before my stilettos created permanent cramps in my calves.

In other words, I might as well get the night and my required attendance over with.

As I headed into the ballroom, I was immediately struck by the number of people in attendance. The hotel itself was located in the heart of historic downtown Charleston, a showpiece of opulence and wealth.

Taking a step inside, I felt a sudden, dizzying blend of awe and excitement. My pulse quickened from the sheer scale of the room’s brilliance. The ambient noise including the clinking of champagne flutes and the murmur of intense conversations created an immersive atmosphere of power.

Those invited were considered the upper crust of society. With a project worth hundreds of millions of dollars, the illustrious trust fund had decided to go all out on providing a taste of luxury. How fascinating that beneath the polite hum of diplomacy, the air felt thin. Every smile in this room was a transaction, a practiced movement in a game I was expected to play flawlessly, but never truly win.

Was I a little too jaded? Perhaps, but I could at least enjoy my private joke.

As my father had told me once so long ago, everyone put on their pants one leg at a time. I moved through the crowd, catching eyes of both approval and curiosity in search of a bar. At least with a drink in my hand, I could hide behind the expensive crystal while pretending to belong.

There was a day that I’d feel completely comfortable at highbrow events, but with my nerves still on edge, I was merely able to tolerate the appreciative views.

A small orchestra was positioned in the corner, classical music filling voids of conversations running dry. I’d often wondered what people discussed at events such as this, although I gathered there were deals being made and lost between the most powerful guests.

So far, I didn’t see anyone I knew, which increased the nerves pooling in my stomach. Glistening chandeliers hung from coffered ceilings while candles flickered on every table. Near the bar were high cocktail tables already occupied.

It would seem I’d been late to the party of the year.

Before I reached the bar, a waiter in black and white swept through the area just in front of me, politely offering a flute of champagne, which I accepted. I had a feeling the prop would come in handy.

As I moved through the crowd, I noticed the stage was already prepared for the big announcement. I stood far enough away no one was paying any attention to the woman standing alone in a sea of rich and classically unhappy people.

Apparently, I’d missed the announcement altogether. What a pity.

Just as I was about to turn around, I felt a presence behind me. I prided myself in being very observant, especially with men I’d prefer to not be bothered with or by. As I’d always heard, a woman could distinguish everything she needed to know about the character of a man from the aftershave chosen.

My throat tightened, created a moment of choking bile even before he spoke.

“You just missed the announcement.” When I didn’t turn around, not eager to strike up a conversation, he shifted his position so he was facing me.

James Watkins was quite a bit older, graying at the temples, but he fashioned himself to be quite the catch. While he certainly had a legitimate reason to be at the event, that didn’t mean I was thrilled to run into him before anyone else.

I offered a smile, doing nothing more than trying to be polite while various excuses of how to leave the event successfully swept through my mind.

He leaned in even closer and I was instantly hit by a suffocating wave of old-school aftershave. The scent was a wall of pungent spice and pine that instantly brought back memories of an awkward high school dance. His, not mine.

“You look beautiful tonight, Isabel, and I’m very excited to be working on the project alongside such a talented architect.”

My smile tightened. I already knew I couldn’t trust a man who smelled like a gas station on a humid summer afternoon. I was even more irritated than normal around him.