When Elizabeth Hargrove—a shipping heiress I briefly dated two years ago—approaches with obvious intent, I smoothly guide Clara in the opposite direction without breaking our conversation about French versus American butter. Elizabeth's affronted expression as we pass is barely registered in my peripheral vision.
Clara is the only woman in the room I see clearly. The only one who matters.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels like finally finding north after years of walking in circles.
Senator Harrison corners me near the silent auction tables, droning about tax incentives for charitable donations. I maintain the appearance of attention while keeping Clara in my peripheral vision. She stands near one of the ice sculptures, champagne flute in hand, looking more relaxed than she has all evening. The red dress catches the light as she shifts her weight, drawing the eye like a flame in darkness. I'm not the only one who notices. James Elliot—cardiac surgeon, hospital donor, and notorious flirt—detaches from a nearby group and moves toward her with clear intent. Something cold and primitive coils in my chest.
"Excuse me, Senator," I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I need to check on my date."
Harrison looks startled by the abrupt dismissal, but I'm already moving, weaving through clusters of guests with practiced efficiency. I'm halfway to Clara when Elliot reaches her, his practiced smile firmly in place. He's objectivelyhandsome—tall, athletic build, the kind of easy confidence that comes from saving lives daily. Women rarely refuse him anything. The thought makes my jaw clench.
I slow my approach, watching their interaction. Clara smiles politely at whatever he's saying, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture I've come to recognize as a nervous habit. She laughs at something, the sound genuine but restrained. Elliot moves closer, his body language announcing his interest as clearly as a billboard. He's good—not coming on too strong, keeping a respectful distance while still creating an impression of intimacy.
The orchestra shifts to a new piece, something slow and romantic. Elliot gestures to the dance floor, his invitation obvious even from where I stand. Clara hesitates, her eyes scanning the room—looking for me, I realize with satisfaction. When she doesn't immediately spot me, she turns back to Elliot with what appears to be a polite declination.
He persists, extending his hand with a charm that's gotten him into the beds of socialites, nurses, and at least two hospital board members. Clara's resistance visibly weakens—perhaps not wanting to cause a scene, perhaps genuinely tempted by the attention of an objectively attractive man.
I analyze Elliot with cold precision. His weakness is pride—the ego of a man accustomed to being the most important person in any room, the literal holder of hearts in his skilled hands. His type hates public rejection even more than private failure. Useful information.
Clara places her hand in his, allowing herself to be led toward the dance floor. Something snaps inside me—a restraint I didn't realize I was maintaining until it breaks. I move with purpose now, no longer concerned with appearing casual.
They've barely taken position when I reach them, placing my hand on Elliot's shoulder with just enough pressure to register as dominance rather than friendly interruption.
"Mind if I cut in?" My voice is pleasant, my smile professional, but my eyes convey the message that this isn't actually a request.
Elliot turns, recognition flickering across his features. "Devereux. Didn't realize you were still here." His gaze shifts between Clara and me, reassessing. "You two are together?"
"Yes," I say simply, not elaborating. Not needing to.
Clara watches this exchange with a mixture of confusion and silence at the barely concealed territorial display.
"Of course," Elliot says, stepping back with the grace of someone who knows when he's outmatched. He turns to Clara with a final smile. "Perhaps another time."
"She's booked," I inform him, taking Clara's hand and drawing her toward me. "For all foreseeable dances."
His eyebrows rise slightly at my bluntness, but he retreats without further comment, disappearing into the crowd with wounded dignity.
Clara allows me to guide her into proper dance position, her body warm against mine as I place my hand at the small of her back. "That was subtle," she murmurs as we begin to move with the music.
"I'm not feeling particularly subtle tonight," I admit, tightening my grip slightly, drawing her closer than strict ballroom etiquette would allow.
Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. "So I gathered. Poor Dr. Elliot looked like you were going to murder him."
"He'll survive." I guide her through a turn, pleased to discover she follows my lead effortlessly. "You dance well."
"Six months of lessons before my cousin's wedding," she explains. "Mom insisted. Said every woman should know how to follow a strong lead on the dance floor."
"Your mother was wise," I say, my thumb making small circles against the silk covering her back.
Clara shivers slightly at the contact. "She also said to be wary of men who think they own the dance floor. And the women on it."
I smile at her pointed observation. "Not all women. Just you."
Her eyes widen at my candor. "Alex..."
"I don't like seeing you with other men," I say, the admission coming easier than expected. "Particularly men like Elliot who collect beautiful women like trophies."
"As opposed to you, who..."
