"Ah, the ornaments." Harold nods, though I can tell he hasn't actually seen them. "Charming. Very…seasonal."
The way he says "charming" makes it sound like he's describing a child's crayon drawing. I feel my smile stiffening.
"They're exquisite," Christian corrects, his tone dropping several degrees. "Hand-crafted pieces that put mass-produced luxury items to shame. You should examine them before forming an opinion, Harold."
Harold blinks, clearly unused to being chastised by Christian—or anyone, I suspect.
"Of course, of course," he backpedals, then turns to me. "I look forward to seeing your work, Miss Winters."
"Thank you," I manage, hating how small my voice sounds.
As Harold retreats, Christian squeezes my hand. "Ignore him. Old money, empty head."
I should be offended by his high-handedness, answering for me, defending me without letting me speak for myself. Instead, I feel a traitorous warmth spreading through my chest. No one has ever spoken up for me or my work like that before.
We move through the crowd, stopping every few feet for Christian to exchange terse greetings with people whose names blur together in my head. Each time, the same pattern repeats: surprise when they see me, quick assessment, then polite words that either dismiss or patronize. And each time, Christian's grip on me tightens a fraction, his responses growing colder if anyone dares suggest my presence or work is anything less than extraordinary.
I'm introduced to so many faces that they start to blend together—CEOs, hedge fund managers, real estate moguls, all of them looking at me with the same question in their eyes: What is she doing with Christian Hawthorne? I'm wondering the same thing.
A server glides past with a tray of champagne. Christian snags two flutes, handing one to me. I take a sip, grateful for something to do with my free hand, and nearly choke on the taste. It's nothing like the $12 sparkling wine I split with Lily on my birthday.
"Careful," Christian says, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's stronger than it tastes."
"Everything here is," I murmur, more to myself than him.
His eyes darken slightly. "Including me."
The orchestra transitions to a new piece, something slow and elegant. Around us, couples begin to drift toward the center of the room. Christian sets his untouched champagne on a passing server's tray.
"You haven't released my hand once since we arrived," I observe, finding courage in the champagne's gentle buzz.
"Is that a complaint?" he asks, his eyes never leaving mine.
"An observation." I take another sip. "People will talk."
"Let them." He takes my champagne and places it beside his, then turns back to me. "They're already talking. Might as well give them something worth discussing."
The realization hits me: he wants them to talk. He wants everyone in this room to see me on his arm, to wonder, to speculate. I'm not just here to showcase my ornaments. I'm here to be showcased.
"Why me?" The question slips out before I can stop it, the same one I asked during our charity dance. "Why did you bring me here tonight? Really?"
For a moment, I think he might actually give me a straight answer. Something flickers in those storm-gray eyes—something almost like vulnerability.
Then a woman's voice cuts through our bubble. "Christian, darling. You've been holding out on us."
The moment shatters. Christian's expression locks down again, all cold control as he turns to face a statuesque blonde in a red dress that looks painted on her perfect body.
"Vanessa," he acknowledges, his tone neutral but his hand tightening around mine to the point of discomfort.
"You know I hate having to hear gossip from others." Her smile is dazzling but doesn't reach her eyes, which assess me from head to toe in one dismissive sweep. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your…friend?"
The way she hesitates before "friend" makes it clear she's using the kindest possible word for what she assumes I am.
"Sophie Winters, Vanessa Lockwood," Christian says tersely. "Vanessa is a board member at Hawthorne Enterprises."
I extend my free hand, determined not to show how intimidated I feel. "Nice to meet you."
Vanessa's hand is cool and her grip deliberately limp. "Charmed. Christian tells me you make…what was it? Christmas trinkets?"
