"I do." I tighten my grip fractionally. "I know exactly what I want, Sophie."
The dance ends, but I don't release her. Not yet. Let them wait, these people who think they have some claim on my time, my attention. Let them see that I'm not finished with Sophie Winters. That I've only just begun.
"What happens after tonight?" she asks, the question barely audible.
"That depends on you," I tell her, though it's only partly true. I've already decided that Sophie isn't walking out of my life when this gala ends. The only variable is how willingly she'll stay.
"And if I say this was just one night?" She's testing me, testing boundaries.
I allow myself a small smile. "Then you'd be lying. To me, and to yourself."
I release her finally, but keep her hand firmly in mine as I lead her from the dance floor. Every step we take together is another small victory, another public declaration. Mine. Mine. Mine.
The night is far from over. And I've only just begun to stake my claim.
I guide Sophie from the dance floor, my hand still claiming hers. I don't release her, don't give her the option to drift away. Not now. Not after making it clear to everyone watching exactly what she means to me. The way she moved against me during our dance, the flush still coloring her cheeks, the slight tremble in her fingers—her body betrays every truth her words might try to deny. She feels this too, this pull between us, this inevitable gravity. The difference is, I've already accepted it. She's still fighting.
The message I've sent with that dance is clear to anyone watching—and everyone was watching. In my world, gestures often speak louder than words. Business rivals, board members, social climbers—they all understand the language of power and possession. By holding Sophie so close, by touching her with such obvious intimacy in such a public setting, I've made a statement more binding than any contract.
Sophie Winters is mine.
She follows half a step behind me as we approach a group of my most important investors—old money families who've backed Hawthorne Enterprises since its inception. I slow my pace, allowing her to draw even with me. Then, deliberately, I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her slightly ahead of me as we reach the circle.
"Ah, Christian," greets Eleanor Blackwell, her diamonds glinting like ice under the chandeliers. "We were beginning to think you'd forgotten us."
"Never," I assure her, keeping Sophie close. "I wanted to introduce you to someone special. Sophie Winters, owner of Winter Wishes. Sophie, Eleanor Blackwell heads our largest investment group."
Eleanor's shrewd eyes assess Sophie from head to toe, missing nothing. "The ornament display is yours? Exquisite work."
"Thank you," Sophie replies, her voice steadier than I expected. "I'm honored to be included tonight."
"Christian doesn't extend invitations lightly," Eleanor says, glancing between us meaningfully. "Or personal introductions."
I step closer to Sophie, my chest nearly touching her back, creating a shield between her and the rest of the group. It's a protective stance, possessive, unmistakable to anyone familiar with body language. Eleanor notices immediately, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"Sophie's work deserves recognition," I say simply. "As does she."
The conversations flows around us—Benet trends, holiday plans, the usual social currency of these events. Throughout, I maintain physical contact with Sophie—my hand at her waist, my fingers brushing hers when I hand her a fresh glass of champagne, my body positioned to include her in our circle while simultaneously Bening her as under my protection.
I notice how she leans into my touch, perhaps unconsciously. How she orients herself toward me even when speaking to others. How her eyes seek mine after she answers a question, as if looking for approval. These small surrenders feed something primal in me, something that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with claiming what's mine.
"Your ornaments would make perfect gifts for our clients," says William Blackwell, Eleanor's husband. "Perhaps we could discuss a bulk order? Over dinner, perhaps? Just the two of us?"
I step forward before Sophie can respond. "Any business arrangements can be discussed through proper channels," I say smoothly, my tone pleasant but my meaning clear. "Sophie's schedule is quite full these days."
William's eyes flick to my hand, now firmly at Sophie's waist, and understanding dawns. "Of course," he says, backing down immediately. "Just a thought."
Sophie glances up at me, something between irritation and gratitude in her expression. I meet her gaze steadily, challenging her to object. She doesn't.
"Sophie," Eleanor interjects, "how did you and Christian meet? He's been unusually secretive about you."
"We danced together at a charity auction," Sophie answers before I can speak. "Christian was…generous in his bidding."
"Fifty thousand dollars for three minutes," I add, watching Eleanor's eyebrows rise. "The best investment I've ever made."
The possessiveness in my tone is unmistakable. Sophie's cheeks flush again, that delicious pink that makes me want to trace it with my fingers, follow it down beneath the neckline of her dress.
"Well," Eleanor says with a knowing smile, "that explains a great deal."
