Page 16 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

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Soren

It takes everything in me not to walk out as he stands at the front of the conference room with his suit jacket buttoned and his hair perfectly coifed, looking polished and professional.

He oozes charm that makes my co-workers laugh and talks about how we’re all in a ship together headed toward a brighter horizon.

I want to vomit, and not just from his terrible metaphors.

My nerves have never been so fried. I thought that I could do this.

I thought I could lure him out and confront him.

I’ve imagined asking him why he did this to me no less than a hundred times in the last few months.

But now that he’s in front of me, I’m weak, pathetic, unable to gather the courage to lay all my cards down.

In theory, this situation could work. If I can get close to him, maybe I can get proof of what he’s done.

Then again, he could be stringing me along.

He claims he’s going to make me an offer I can’t refuse, but what if that’s just because he plans to bully and intimidate me into compliance?

Would I be absolutely insane to trust the man who, at the very least, killed my husband, and at most… I don’t want to even think about it.

The thought makes me sick.

But I can’t deny that getting close to him gives me an incredible opportunity.

If I work under his nose—if I can do it without letting him ‘ruin’ me, whatever that means—then maybe I can find something to back up my claims. Maybe I can find something tangible as evidence to get the district attorney to take me seriously.

I wanted Declan to know that I was onto him when I wrote that article; it was my entire motivation for going after him. If he knew I had eyes on him, that I knew what kind of stuff he was mixed up in, maybe he’d get paranoid and sloppy and mess up just enough to give me something to hold onto.

Initially, the thought of Declan Evers being responsible for what happened didn’t make sense.

Sure, Vin knew of Evers. Heir of a massive fortune whose companies provide jobs for more than half of the town?

It’s the kind of thing that captivates people, especially because he has the good fortune of looking like an Armani model, complete with the broad shoulders I can see beneath his jacket.

To think that Vin would have ended up even as a blip on Declan’s radar seemed ridiculous at the time.

But the more I looked into it, the more it made sense to me.

I didn’t know when he died, but Vin was in a world of debt.

He’d paid cash for our home and within ninety days of closing, eked all of the equity out of it, putting a high-interest mortgage on our place.

It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he got tangled up with the wrong person, that he met Declan somehow, that he’d borrowed money he couldn’t pay back.

I didn’t understand where the cash had come from in the first place, but I never concerned myself with our finances.

Vin had promised he’d always take care of me.

When he’d put a gorgeous diamond on my finger, he’d sworn it with his life.

In a way, he pulled through.

I rub my thumb absently over the place where my ring should be, feeling hollow… numb. It’s better than the fear, the anxiety, or the doubt, but I know it’s not a safe place. I can’t live there in my disconnected state, as much as I would love to. And I’m reminded of that fact when I hear my name.

It sounds far away at first, drifting to me through the fog of my thoughts.

When I look up from my hands, I realize every eye in the room is fixed upon me.

“Welcome back to Earth, Miss Palmer.” Declan laughs and a few chuckles quickly follow suit. The sound of his voice sends a chill over me—the kind you get when someone is breathing on your back.

I feel vulnerable in front of him, and I hate it.

“Sorry.” I mutter. But I don’t stop there. Before I can shut my mouth, before I can lose my nerve, I say, “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Declan perches on the edge of the table, commanding my attention.

Everyone is watching us.

I wonder what they see.

A game of cat and mouse?

A woman who’s captured the interest of the boss?

A manager who’s getting a little too comfortable?

Maybe it’s none of the above. Maybe we don’t look like anything other than what we’re pretending to be.

I force a smile, and though I can’t see it, I’d bet money it looks genuine.

I perfected the art of faking it to convince people I was okay long ago.

When trauma comes for you at a young age, everyone tries to act like a therapist, psychoanalyzing your choice of food or clothes or the books you’re into.

I could either let them all drive me truly insane with their fears that I already was, or I could act, too.

“Oh,” I even manage a laugh. “Well, it’s not your fault, is it?”

I’m amused with myself, proud of my quick wit. I usually don’t think of saying these things until after the moment has passed.

My satisfaction is squandered, though, when I don’t get a reaction from him. Or at least, not the reaction I want.

He licks his lips, and to everyone else it probably comes across as an odd habit. But I can tell that I’m playing his game, and he loves it.

“No.” Declan laughs. “I suppose you’re right. I would, however, ask that you try and get better rest in the future. I need you sharp, Miss Palmer.”

I’m not indulging him this time. It would be a fool’s errand. I simply force that smile again and try to pretend I’m invested in every word that falls from his lips the way my colleagues are.

The difference is, I’m not interested in anything that falls from his tongue. I know better than they do. I poked a hornet’s nest by running the article on him, and now Declan is fixated on me. The damage is done—all I can do now is wait for him to slip up, to give me something to use against him.

If Declan wants me sharp, I’ll give him all my jagged edges.