"None of them matter," I tell her, placing my hand at the small of her back to guide her forward. "They're just background."
I feel her spine straighten beneath my palm, her chin lifting slightly. Good. I want her confident. I want everyone to see what I see—not just beauty, but strength. The kind of woman worthy of standing beside Christian Hawthorne.
We haven't taken five steps before I notice the attention she's drawing. Men turn, conversations pausing mid-sentence as their gazes follow our progress. Their expressions are identical—appreciation, hunger, calculation. The women's reactions are equally predictable—assessment, followed by either dismissal or threat evaluation.
The attention fuels something primal in me. Let them look. Let them want. They can't have her.
"Mr. Hawthorne," greets the hotel manager, appearing at my side as if conjured. "Always a pleasure to host your event. And your guest is...?"
"Sophie Winters," I supply, without giving her a chance to speak for herself. "Owner of Winter Wishes."
The manager's eyes widen fractionally—he clearly wasn't expecting me to arrive with a local shopkeeper—but his professional mask slides back into place quickly. "Ah, yes. The ornament display is arranged as requested. If you'll follow me..."
We proceed through the hotel's grand foyer, a cathedral of marble and crystal. I keep Sophie close, my hand never leaving her back. I feel each breath she takes, each moment of tension as we pass clusters of people who pause their conversations to stare. Some nod respectfully to me. I acknowledge only those who matter.
"Christian," calls a voice I recognize. James Whitaker, CEO of a technology firm I've been considering acquiring. "Didn't expect to see you with a date tonight."
I feel Sophie stiffen beside me.
"James," I acknowledge coolly. "This is Sophie Winters. She's an artist whose work is featured tonight."
James's eyes sweep over Sophie, lingering a beat too long on the curve of her neck. "Lucky us," he says, extending his hand to her. "I look forward to seeing your…creations."
She shakes his hand briefly. "Thank you. I hope they meet your expectations."
"I'm sure anything associated with Christian exceeds expectations," James replies, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"We should continue," I interject, my tone making it clear the conversation is over. "The display awaits our approval."
I guide Sophie away, not bothering with further pleasantries.
"Is he important?" she asks quietly.
"Not as important as he thinks," I reply. "And not worth your concern."
We reach the entrance to the main ballroom where a small but elegant display has been set up. Sophie's ornaments—crystal snowflakes, hand-painted glass globes, delicate wooden sculptures—are arranged on black velvet under perfectly positioned spotlights. Each piece catches the light in ways that showcase the craftsmanship, the attention to detail.
Sophie's breath catches. "They look…different here."
"They look valuable," I correct her. "Which they are."
Her eyes find mine, genuine surprise in them. "You think so?"
"I don't deal in things without value, Sophie." I let my gaze travel deliberately from her eyes to her lips. "In any context."
The blush that colors her cheeks is more satisfying than closing a multimillion-dollar deal.
A small group has already gathered around the display, examining the pieces with interest. I observe Sophie as she steps forward to answer their questions. She's nervous at first—her hands fidgeting with her clutch, her smile a bit too eager—but within minutes, she finds her rhythm. Her passion for her craft shines through, transforming her from uncertain to captivating.
I stand back, watching as she draws people in, her hands gesturing gracefully as she explains her techniques. In this moment, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and power, she doesn't fade into the background as I half-expected. Instead, she glows brighter, a genuine spark among carefully cultivated facades.
The sight stirs something unexpected in me. Not just desire—though that burns steady and hot beneath my skin—but something dangerously close to admiration.
"Christian Hawthorne with a date. The world must be ending."
I turn to find Elizabeth Chen beside me, elegant as always in midnight blue. As the head of the largest investment firm on the East Coast, she's one of the few people I genuinely respect.
"Not a date," I correct automatically. "A featured artist."
