"Besides," I add, "you'll be with me the entire evening. Anyone who makes you uncomfortable will find themselves suddenly persona non grata in several social circles."
Her eyes widen slightly. "That's…a bit terrifying."
"It's protective," I correct. "You're entering this world as my guest, which puts you under my protection. I take that responsibility seriously."
"I can handle myself," she says, chin lifting slightly. "I've been dealing with difficult people since I first stepped behind a counter."
"I know you can," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "But you shouldn't have to, not tonight. Tonight is about you experiencing the benefits of my world without the drawbacks."
She studies me for a long moment, as if trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle. "Why are you doing this? Really?"
The question deserves honesty, but I'm not sure I fully understand the answer myself. "Because I want to see you shine," I finally say. "Because I want to show you possibilities beyond what you've imagined for yourself. Because I want to watch every man in that room envy me when you walk in on my arm."
She blushes again, the color spreading down her neck to her chest in a way that makes me want to trace it with my fingers. With my tongue.
"That's…very possessive," she says carefully.
"Yes," I agree, not bothering to deny it. "I am a possessive man, Clara. It's better you understand that now."
Her eyes darken at my bluntness, but she doesn't look away. "I'm not yours to possess."
"Not yet," I say quietly.
We arrive at the Thornton Hotel, where the gala is being held. The red carpet leading to the entrance is lined withphotographers—local society pages, charity publications, a few mainstream media outlets. Clara tenses beside me as she sees them.
"We can use the side entrance," I offer immediately.
She straightens her shoulders. "No. I'm your date for the official thing, right? Let's do this properly."
Her courage impresses me. I exit first, then offer my hand to help her from the car. When she emerges, the flash of cameras intensifies. Clara blinks against the sudden brightness but doesn't falter.
I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward. The possessive gesture isn't lost on the photographers, who immediately start calling questions.
"Mr. Devereux! Who's your date tonight?"
"This way, please!"
"Are you two an item?"
I ignore them all, focusing instead on Clara's reaction. She's handling it better than most first-timers, keeping her head high, her expression composed. But I feel the slight tremor under my palm, the tension in her body.
"Almost through," I murmur close to her ear. "You're doing beautifully."
We enter the hotel's grand ballroom, transformed for tonight into a winter wonderland of white flowers, crystal, and subtle gold accents. Immediately, heads turn in our direction. I watch the reactions ripple through the crowd—recognition of me, curiosity about my companion, the inevitable assessment of her beauty, her dress, her right to be here.
The men look too long, their gazes lingering on the curves highlighted by red silk. The women study her with calculating eyes, trying to place her in their mental hierarchies. No one approaches immediately—my reputation ensures a certain buffer zone of respect or fear, depending on the individual.
Clara takes it all in with wide eyes, her grip on my arm tightening slightly. "Everyone's staring," she whispers.
"Because you're stunning," I reply honestly. "And because you're with me. I rarely bring dates to these things."
Her eyebrows raise. "Really? I figured you'd always have some model or socialite on your arm."
"I attend. I donate. I leave," I explain. "Arm candy is optional and usually more trouble than it's worth."
"So what am I?" she asks, a challenge in her voice. "Arm pastry instead of arm candy?"
I smile despite myself. "You, Clara Benson, are the exception to every rule I've ever made."
