Chapter Fifty-Eight
Sin
Face to Face
It’s almost midnight. The party is packed, in full swing with no signs of slowing down.
It's been an incredible night doing my favorite thing—watching people who think they aren’t being watched.
A lot of these people I've only ever seen in films and on TV. So many of them are smaller, more ordinary in person than I could've imagined. There's a part of me that wishes I'd never seen them.
I enjoy my imagination much more than I do the reality of anything. If writing has taught me anything it’s that no human being belongs on a pedestal.
Kwame has barely left my side tonight. He's introduced me to countless people.
My head was spinning with the effort of keeping them all straight. And then he whispered, “Don't worry. No one remembers anyone's names here and most of them like it that way.”
The dress code is strictly traditional. Kwame’s purple Kente is draped over his shirtless torso and chest. Matching linen trousers skim long muscular legs and his feet are adorned in traditional leather and gold sandals.
He looks like the man of my dreams.
His arm is draped lazily around my shoulder. He's gazing out on the dance floor with an apathetic expression that makes him look like a casual observer.
He’s been looking for his father all night.
“Kwame, you old devil.” A lithe, dark-skinned Black woman saunters up to him and leans in for a kiss.
“Mrs. Wilde.”
“Call me Tina,” she coos and turns her dark eyes to me.
“I’m Sin.”
“I bet,” she quips.
“Sin, this is Tina Wilde, head of one of the largest conglomerates in the world. Tina, this is my girlfriend, Sin. She's a journalist.” He introduces me with such pride in his eyes.
She nods. “I have a daughter-in-law who's a journalist. I bet you keep him on his toes.” She winks. “Lovely to see you. Glad Palm Sunday is back. It’s one of my favorite places to do business.”
“I can see why,” I say only because it sounds like the right thing to say.
“As much as I love talking to you, Kwame, I must make hay.”
She gives up both air kisses before she glides away.
“Wow, I've never heard of her, but I feel like I should have.”
“She’s based in Houston and Paris. And her real estate development company is building a community in Maryland so you’ll be hearing more of her. What did you call it? Baader-Meinhof.”
“That’s not real.” I roll my eyes and glance around the room.
My stomach drops.
Ozwald Annan and Paloma Persaud are walking together seemingly deep in conversation. Like he feels my eyes on him, Oz looks my way and when our eyes connect, recognition seems to flare in his.
I swallow down the knot of dread that builds when he leans down to say something in Paloma’s ear. They both look in our direction and Paloma smiles at me and flutters her fingers in a wave.
I turn back to Kwame but he’s in the middle of a conversation with someone who looks familiar, but I can’t place. I’m itching to interrupt him and tell him that Oz is here.
I look around the room again and freeze when I lock eyes with the man himself. My pulse is racing and I reach out to put a hand on Kwame’s arm and squeeze. He looks over his shoulder at me, “You okay?”
I nod but his smile fades at whatever he sees on my face. He turns to face me fully. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s here,” I mouth tipping my head as discreetly as possible in Oz’s direction.
“Who’s here?” His eyes move in that direction and his expression hardens. “Fuck.” He mutters and gets to his feet. I turn to look for Oz and gasp. He’s ten feet away from our table.
I move to stand but Kwame puts a firm hand on my shoulder. “No, Sin. Wait.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
He bends so we’re eye level. “Trust me.” His smile rings false but before I can say anything, he straightens and moves to stand in front of me just as Oz reaches our table.
Kwame’s body blocks my view as he and The Wizard start speaking in hushed tones. I can’t hear a word over the din of the party.
My mind is reeling. I thought I’d be observing Ozwald from afar.
It never occurred to me that I’d have the chance to talk to him face to face.
I wait for Kwame to turn around and introduce me. When he doesn’t, I get to my feet and step around so I’m beside him.
They stop speaking and in unison turn their heads to look at me.
I focus on Kwame, not hiding my bafflement. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
His back goes rigid and his hands curl into fists briefly at his side. “I told you to wait.”
Shocked at his tone, I take a step back.
“We’ve already met, haven’t we?” Oz says his icy gaze on me. “Why are you here?”
Goosebumps run up my arms, and I wish I’d kept my ass in my seat.
“She’s my guest,” Kwame answers for me and steps between us again.
“Your father wants to see you. Now,” Ozwald says and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Why is he running errands for Mr. Palmer? What the hell is going on?
Kwame turns to face me. He cups my shoulders and looks me in the eye. His expression is impossible to read. “I’ll be right back.”
“How do you know him?” I mouth my eyes gesturing to the man behind him.
He looks down at me, his eyes sad and my blood runs cold. “I’ll be right back and I’ll explain.”
His voice was low and grave in my ear and his eyes are pleading. But for what?
I’m keenly aware that we have an audience, so I repress the urge to demand he explain what the hell is happening.
I smile, grab his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “I'll be here when you get back.”
He turns to walk away but Oz lingers a moment. His eyes sweep over me and linger on my face longer than is comfortable before he turns to walk with Kwame.
Menacing, ice cold, ruthless, and dangerous.
That’s all I see when I look at him.
Should Kwame be going off with him alone?
I’m half out of my seat when my path is blocked. This time by a lithe body clad in white silk.
Paloma Persaud. She flashes a million-watt smile. “Finally, we meet.”