Page 1 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham Ellsworth

The Metropolitan Opera House glitters like a jeweled crown against the Manhattan skyline, its grand facade illuminated for tonight's charity auction benefiting the New York Children's Hospital.

I adjust my black bow tie as I step out of my Aston Martin, handing the keys to the valet with the casual confidence of a man who's attended a thousand such events.

Inside, the opulent lobby buzzes with New York's elite—old money mixing with new tech fortunes, political dynasties rubbing shoulders with entertainment royalty.

Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over designer gowns and perfectly tailored tuxedos, the air thick with expensive perfume and the subtle hum of power exchanging pleasantries.

I spot my target immediately, Sebastian Ashford stands near the champagne station, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Even in his impeccably cut Armani, Sebastian radiates the kind of tension that comes from a man trapped in circumstances beyond his control.

"You look like someone's holding a gun to your head," I say, appearing at Sebastian's elbow and accepting a glass of Dom Pérignon from a passing waiter.

Sebastian's gray eyes flick to me with barely concealed irritation. "Might as well be. Three more months until the engagement announcement."

"Ah yes, the illustrious Miss Catherine Whitmore." I take a sip of champagne, savoring both the vintage and Sebastian's obvious discomfort. "Remind me again why you're going through with this particular form of social suicide?"

"Family expectations. Political alliances.

The usual reasons men like us sacrifice personal happiness for strategic advantage.

" Sebastian's tone is flat, practiced, the voice of someone who's given this explanation too many times.

"Father's been planning this marriage since Catherine was in prep school. "

"How delightfully medieval of him."

Sebastian shoots me a dark look. "Easy for you to say. You don't have a senatorial legacy breathing down your neck."

I shrug, unrepentant. "Benefits of being new money, my friend. No ancestral obligations to ancient bloodlines." I scan the crowd with ease, cataloging faces, connections, and potential opportunities. "Speaking of which, have you seen our favorite reformed predator and his artist?"

"Over there." Sebastian nods toward the far corner of the room, where Beckett Sinclair stands in deep conversation with a museum curator, Luna Laurent at his side looking radiant in midnight blue silk.

I study them with genuine interest. The transformation in both of them over the past year has been remarkable to witness.

Beckett—once the epitome of cold control—now carries himself with a different kind of confidence.

Still commanding, still dangerous, but tempered by something that looks suspiciously like contentment.

And Luna... she's blossomed from the guarded, sharp-edged woman I first met into someone who moves through these elite circles with natural grace, her art having earned her a place here independent of Beckett's influence or family name.

"They look disgustingly happy," I observe.

"Grotesquely," Sebastian agrees, though there's warmth in his voice. "Who would have thought Beckett Sinclair capable of actual human emotion?"

"The heart wants what it wants, apparently." I raise my glass in a mock toast to the distant couple. "Even stone-cold bastards like us aren't immune."

"Speak for yourself. My heart wants a great many things, none of which involve Catherine Whitmore."

Before I can respond with an appropriately sarcastic comment, Beckett and Luna approach, weaving through the crowd with the unconscious synchronization of two people completely attuned to each other.

"Gentlemen," Beckett says by way of greeting, his hand resting lightly on Luna's lower back—protective but not possessive, I note. "Enjoying the spectacle?"

"Oh, immensely," I reply. "Sebastian's been regaling me with tales of his upcoming nuptials. Apparently, love is in the air."

Luna shoots Sebastian a sympathetic look. "How are you holding up?"

"About as well as expected for a man walking toward his own execution," Sebastian says dryly.

"Come on, it can't be that bad," Luna says. "Maybe she'll surprise you."

Sebastian's smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "The only surprise would be if she had an original thought in that perfectly coiffed head of hers."

"Such romantic enthusiasm," I murmur. "I'm getting emotional just listening to you."

Beckett's mouth twitches—the closest thing to a smile most people ever see from him. "Perhaps we should change the subject before Sebastian throws himself off the balcony."

"Please," Sebastian mutters.

"How's the new collection coming along?" Beckett asks Luna, smoothly redirecting the conversation.

Luna's face lights up with genuine excitement. "Better than expected. The gallery thinks we might be able to schedule the exhibition for early spring."

"That's wonderful," Sebastian says, and I can hear the relief in his voice at having something positive to discuss. "Your work deserves the recognition."

"Thank you. It's still surreal sometimes, having people actually want to buy my paintings."

"Good art speaks for itself," I say, meaning it. I might be a cynic about most things, but Luna's talent is undeniable. "Success was inevitable."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer's voice booms across the room, "if you would please take your seats, we'll be beginning tonight's auction shortly."

As we move toward the main auction hall, I fall into step beside Beckett. "Speaking of inevitable events, any word on this year's Hunt schedule?"

Beckett's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. “One month out. The Collectors are being more... selective in their planning this year."

"After the Vale incident, I imagine they would be." I keep my voice low, aware of the ears around us. Dorian Vale's spectacular fall from grace sent ripples through the Club that are still being felt. "Any idea who's on the list?"

"No one I know personally," Beckett replies carefully. "Which is probably for the best."

I nod, understanding the subtext. After what happened with Luna—the violence, the near-loss, the fundamental shift in how Beckett views the entire institution—his enthusiasm for the Club's more traditional activities has notably waned.

We settle into our reserved seats in the front section, the four of us claiming a small table that provides an excellent view of both the auction stage and the rest of the crowd. I position myself strategically, back to the wall, where I can observe without being obviously watched in return.

The auctioneer, a distinguished man in his sixties with the kind of charm that comes from decades of extracting money from wealthy donors, begins with the evening's smaller pieces—paintings, sculptures, and jewelry that will warm up the crowd before the main attractions.

I half-listen to the proceedings, more interested in studying the audience. This is where the real action happens at these events—in the subtle negotiations, the social positioning, the careful dance of influence and favor that drives New York's power structure.

That's when I see her.

She stands near the back of the room, partially concealed by a marble pillar, but positioned where she can clearly see the auction stage.

Even from a distance, she's striking—the kind of classical beauty that graces magazine covers and museum walls. Platinum blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, flawless makeup that enhances rather than masks, a figure-hugging scarlet dress that looks like a Valentino from where I’m sitting.

But it's the details that catch my attention, the small tells that speak to my watchful eye.

The way she holds herself with just a fraction too much deliberate poise, as if she's studied videos of how wealthy women are supposed to move.

The jewelry that's expensive but not quite right—beautiful pieces that don't belong to any particular set, suggesting they've been acquired individually rather than inherited or gifted as a collection.

The dress that fits perfectly but shows the subtle tan lines of someone who's spent considerable time in more casual clothing.

She's playing a part, and playing it well—but not well enough to fool someone who's spent his life reading people's true intentions.

Most intriguingly, she's not alone. A man stands beside her, closer to my age, with the soft features and carefully maintained appearance of someone who's never worked for anything in his life.

I recognize the type immediately: old money that's been carefully preserved but never earned, the kind of man who lives off trust funds and family connections while contributing nothing of value to the world.

More importantly, I recognize the man himself—Martin Pemberton, a Patron-level member of the Owner's Club. Not wealthy enough or influential enough to achieve Owner status, but with enough family pedigree to buy his way into the outer circles of power.

The dynamic between them is immediately clear to me. She leans in when Martin speaks, laughs at his undoubtedly mediocre jokes, touches his arm with just the right amount of interested affection. But her eyes remain alert, calculating, constantly cataloging the room around them.

She's working him. And doing a damn good job of it.

"Lot seventeen," the auctioneer announces, "a charming landscape by Hudson River School artist Thomas Cole. We'll start the bidding at five thousand dollars."

My attention snaps back to the mystery woman as she straightens with sudden interest. The painting in question is competent but unremarkable—the kind of piece that might fetch eight to ten thousand on a good day. Nothing that should excite someone with clearly expensive tastes.

"Six thousand," Martin calls out lazily, apparently bidding to impress his companion.

The woman leans closer to him, whispering something that makes him smile with masculine satisfaction. When the auctioneer asks for seven thousand, she raises her own paddle.

"We have seven thousand from the lady in red," the auctioneer says smoothly.

I watch with growing amusement as she continues bidding, her excitement palpable as the price climbs well beyond the painting's actual value. Martin looks increasingly uncomfortable as other bidders drop out, leaving them competing against only one other determined collector.

"Fifteen thousand," she calls out, her voice carrying a note of triumph that suggests she thinks she's getting a bargain.

The other bidder shakes his head and withdraws. The painting is hers for nearly twice what it's worth.

"Sold to the lady in red for fifteen thousand dollars!"

She actually claps her hands together in delight, then throws her arms around Martin in celebration. The poor fool looks like he's just been hit by a truck, probably calculating how much this evening is going to cost him.

I find myself intriuged. Most grifters would show more restraint, would worry about drawing attention to themselves. But she's committed to the performance completely, embracing the role of an excited, naive collector who's gotten caught up in the thrill of bidding.

It's either the work of a master manipulator or genuine enthusiasm from someone who truly doesn't understand what she's doing. Given everything else I've observed, I'm betting on the former.

"That was quite a show," Luna comments quietly, having followed my gaze.

"Indeed," Sebastian agrees. "Someone's about to have a very expensive evening."

Beckett says nothing, but I catch him studying the woman with the same analytical attention he brings to potential business acquisitions.

"Excuse me," I say, rising from my seat as the auctioneer moves on to the next lot. "I think I'll go congratulate the happy winner."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. "Should we be concerned?"

"Always," I reply with a grin. "But never bored."