A sigil in the upper right-hand corner of the top paper draws my attention, and I run my fingers across it.
Balor Industries.
Industries?
Rifling through the stack, I find no less than a dozen different company names, all tied back to Balor Industries.
The CEO? Me.
CFO? Skyler Beltran.
Skyler Beltran?That was one of the guys the cops asked me about.
Losing all semblance of patience, I jerk the drawers open, tearing through stacks and stacks of official-looking paperwork detailing years of silent ownership of companies within my purview.
Bars, "locally owned" liquor stores, distilleries, more than I ever imagined.
The one that started it all, theonlyone I remember, Balor Mead and Spirits, has grown into something I never could have predicted.
And not only here in the city, but across the country.
Every company has its own extensive list ofemployees.
I already know I'll have to track down this Skyler guy. Maybe he'll have some answers for me.
Hopefully, someone at the closest club I now own will know where to find him.
As I put everything back where I found it, frantically working as if the real owner might show up any minute and catch me snooping, I'm stopped in my tracks, frozen by the photograph facing back at me from the desktop.
There, smiling brilliantly, is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.
Dazzling, kind eyes the color of chocolate, framed by the blackest lashes, so long they cast shadows across her cheekbones and the gorgeous little crinkles in her nose. Those ridges along the bridge of her nose, coupled with her big eyes, remind me of a cute little fucking bunny. Especially with those full, pink cheeks. AndJesus Christ, even fuller curves. Her lips are a slash of deep burgundy, the lipstick taunting me with how it draws my attention to her slightly pouty lower lip.
And her fucking dress.
Low cut, fitted, and the same color as her lipstick, showing off far more than any fucking person should be lucky enough to see.
And there, wrapped around her waist, is my hand, pulling her close. At the edge of the photograph, you can clearly see my side profile, bathed in the warm light of the chandelier, smiling at her with an expression that could only be described as awe bordering on sordid hunger.
But fucking hell, who could blame me?
In the photo, we're nearly the same height, though I suspect it's because she's wearing heels, bringing her so close to me that I could have tasted her lips without even bending down to reach them.
Whoever she is, she must be mine. Of course, I'm fucking staring at her like she hung every god damn star in the sky. Anyone would be lucky to be on the arm of someone as stunning as her. Who wouldn'tlook at her like everything in this bleak universe centers around the only bright thing within it?
Next to it, in a smaller frame, is another picture of the same night. A different angle, my beauty and I sharing a drink, standing at the bar in some glittering gala full of expensive liquor and even more extravagant decor, designed to squeeze every penny out of those in attendance.
Her expression as she looks at me over her glass is curious, calculating almost, with one brow raised as I carelessly lean closer, my hand on the bartop beside us.
Just these two moments in time tell me a million stories of who we were to each other.
And yet, I have no fucking clue who she is.
A feral monster crawls out of my skin, ripping the back of the picture frames off, searching for a name, a date, what god damn foundation we were dressed up for,anything.
Only to come up completely empty-handed.
There has to be something somewhere.
