"Who wants you in ways that have nothing to do with collection and everything to do with possession," I finish for her. The music swells as I guide her into another turn, using the momentum to pull her even closer, our bodies now separated by mere molecules of heated air.
"That's…not exactly reassuring," she says, though her dilated pupils and quickened breath tell a different story.
"It's not meant to be reassuring, Clara. It's meant to be honest."
Her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on my shoulder. "And what happens when you get bored? When the novelty of the baker in flour-dusted jeans wears off?"
The question holds echoes of the concerns her friend must have shared, the warnings about my past. I consider a diplomatic answer, something designed to ease her fears while maintaining my usual emotional distance.
Instead, I find myself saying, "That's not going to happen."
"How can you be so sure?" Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, for the practiced lines other women might have accepted.
"Because I've never wanted anyone the way I want you," I tell her, the raw honesty surprising us both. "It's not about novelty. It's about you. Specifically, uniquely you."
We move across the floor in perfect synchronization, as if we've been dancing together for years instead of minutes. Her body fits against mine with a rightness that defies explanation, her warmth seeping through the layers of formal wear between us.
"I'm not sure I believe you," she whispers, vulnerability flashing in her eyes.
The music changes, shifting to something faster, less intimate, but I maintain our close position, unwilling to release her. Other couples move around us, the gala continuing its carefully choreographed social dance, but they might as well be shadows for all the attention I pay them.
In this moment, with Clara warm and pliant in my arms, her scent filling my lungs, her eyes locked on mine, I recognize the dangerous truth I've been circling for weeks: I don't merely want her in my bed. I want her in my life. Under my protection. By my side.
Not as a temporary diversion or a conquest to be displayed and discarded, but as something permanent. Essential. Mine.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it settles in my chest like a piece falling into place, completion rather than complication.
I've built an empire by recognizing what I want and taking it. Clara Benson will be no exception—regardless of how many cardiac surgeons or jealous exes stand in my way.
Chapter
Seven
CLARA
My heart hasn't stopped racingsince our dance. Alex's arms around me, his admission of wanting me, the way his eyes never left mine—it was all too much, too intense, too everything. The gala spins around me in a blur of crystal and candlelight, conversations washing over me like waves I can't quite catch. I smile and nod at people Alex introduces, but my mind keeps replaying the feeling of his hand at the small of my back, the heat of his body against mine, the honesty in his voice when he said he wanted me. Not just wanted—possessed. The word should terrify me. Instead, it sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly.
"Are you alright?" Alex's voice cuts through my daze, his hand gently touching my elbow. "You look flushed."
I blink, focusing on his face. His expression shows genuine concern beneath the composed exterior he maintains for the benefit of watching eyes. "It's just…warm in here," I manage, reaching up to touch my burning cheek. "And loud."
He studies me for a moment, then nods as if coming to a decision. "Follow me."
His hand slides from my elbow to the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly where he's going and expects others to make way. They do. Conversations pause as we pass, eyes tracking our movement, speculations forming behind calculating smiles. I feel each gaze like a physical touch—some curious, some envious, some openly hostile. Victoria Chen watches our retreat with narrowed eyes while pretending to listen to her companion. Sophia Winters doesn't bother pretending, her stare cold enough to frost glass.
"Everyone's watching us leave together," I murmur, acutely aware of how this must look.
"Let them," Alex says, unconcerned. "Most of these people spend their lives watching other people live. It's the closest they get to genuine emotion."
We slip through a side door into a hallway, then down a corridor that grows increasingly quiet. Alex produces a key card from his pocket and opens another door, revealing a garden terrace bathed in the soft glow of string lights. The December night air hits my heated skin like a blessing, cool and clean after the perfumed warmth of the ballroom.
"Better?" he asks, releasing me as we step outside.
I nod, taking a deep breath of the crisp air. "Much. How did you know about this place? And how do you have a key?"
"I've attended this event for six years. I made it a point to find every available exit." He shrugs, the gesture almost boyish. "The key card…let's just say the hotel manager owes me a favor."
The terrace is deserted, a private oasis of sculpted hedges and elegant seating areas. Strings of white lights twinkle overhead like earthbound stars, casting gentle shadows that soften the edges of everything they touch. In the distance, the city skyline glitters against the night sky, a perfect backdrop to this surreal evening.
