Page 16 of Her Ruin

“Never thought about it.”

“You are now, though, am I right?” He grinned at me, and I shook my head.

“No. But you may be thinking about ittoomuch.”

He shrugged, rolling his head on his shoulders. “It’s like a fucking zoo out there.”

“Good.”

When I checked my computer screen, the registers throughout the club updated into a program that gave me a live feed. I watched tonight’s earnings grow in real time.

“So…I heard a rumor.”

Looking up, I met Rye’s frown. “Do I guess, or do you tell me? Also, when do you listen to gossip?”

“The Grand Gracemont,” he carried on, ignoring my questions. “It’s been undergoing some refurbishment.”

I grunted, returning to my screen. “About time. The place is a monument to a decade that’s long dead.”

“Ihearthey’re making moves to compete…with us.”

That caught my attention. “It’s a memorial to the last millennium.”

“It’s beingrefreshed.”

I considered the news. The Grand was huge, as its name suggested. It had potential, though: grounds, a ballroom, hotel rooms, and a restaurant. “Who?”

Rye grinned at me, showing me all his teeth. “Isla Wells.”

I laughed out loud. “Goddamn, she’s a tenacious bitch.”

“Seems she’s project managing the renovations, and Gerard Fitzsimmons is singing nothing but praise for her.”

A slow smile curved my lips. “She wants to compete with us, interesting.” I gestured to the top row of screens. “Not the nightlife. No. She won’t get that there.” I considered her motives, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “She wants the day events, the conference bookings, lunches, baby showers.” My nose wrinkled in disgust; we had three of them already.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked as he watched me closely.

“Keep an eye on it, let me know how far she’s willing to go.”

“And if she goes too far?” he asked softly.

“Let her.” I sat back in my chair, my eyes on the screens in front of me. “Isla is strong-willed, determined, and an all-round pain in the ass. She can’t compete with us.” My tone was confident, unwavering. “We’re not on the same playing field for that.” I gestured to the live feed of the nightclub. The floor was packed with bodies, the DJ commanding the crowd like a puppeteer pulling strings. Pulsing lights and the low bass of music radiated even through the screen.

“Or that.” My finger shifted to the monitors displaying the private club below. People lounged in plush chairs, drinks in hand, some leaning close in booths, whispering together.

“She’s aneventplanner,” I said, leaning forward, my voice measured. “She’s good at what she does, no doubt, but don’t kid yourself. She’ll lose some events to our nightclub—weddings, parties, whatever—and we may lose some of the corporate day bookings. It’s a give and take.” I shrugged, nonchalant. “But that’s not our game. It’s not our target.”

My hand swept lazily in the direction of the screens again. “Nice if we get them. A few corporate gigs will pay the staff bonuses, butthat—” I pointed to the nightclub, where money was changing hands faster than drinks could be poured “—andthat—” my gaze shifted to the private club, where the real power plays were happening “—is what makes the money.”

I let the words hang between us for a moment, allowing the weight to settle. The nightclub was a distraction, the surface-level draw that kept the curious entertained and the casual spenders pouring money into our pockets. But the lower level? That was the real machine. A self-sustaining engine fueled by whispers, handshakes, and the kind of transactions that didn’t get receipts.

Rye shifted in his seat, his look still skeptical. He licked his lower lip as he looked at the screens. “People talk,” he said stubbornly. “She pulls something big and manages to turn heads?—”

“Then let her,” I snapped sharply. “Lether. People like Isla thrive on proving they’re better than you think they are. She’ll work herself to the bone, trying to outdo us, and for what? A corporate luncheon or a wedding with a fucking champagne fountain?” I shook my head in amusement. “She’s playing checkers while we’re playing chess.”

“And you’re okay with that?” he asked, not looking entirely convinced. “Isn’t she Julian’s friend?”

“Julian’sfriend. Not mine.”

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