Page 14 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

Inside, the invitation itself is a work of art. Thick paper that feels substantial between my fingers, elegant script that manages to be both beautiful and somehow threatening:

Miss Sophia Reeves

Sunset to Sunrise

The Blackwood Estate

Your presence is requested for preliminary briefings beginning Monday, October 3rd

Further instructions will follow

Dress code: Clothing will be provided and is mandatory

Prizes: Beyond your wildest imagination

There's something darkly beautiful about it—the way the gold foil catches the light, the subtle watermark visible when I hold it up to the window. Even the threat embedded in those elegant words feels almost romantic, like something from a gothic novel.

"Jesus," Iris breathes, reading over my shoulder. "That's either the most beautiful or the most terrifying thing I've ever seen."

“I’m going to go with exciting.” I trace the embossed lettering with my fingertip, surprised by how solid and real it feels. After weeks of research and speculation, holding actual proof of the Hunt's existence is oddly thrilling.

"Let me run this through the scanner," Iris says, already moving toward her computer setup. "See if I can pull any metadata from the printing process, maybe trace the paper stock..."

While she works, I study the invitation more closely. There's a small symbol in the corner—some kind of crest or logo—that looks familiar but I can't place it. The return address is simply "The Wolfe Estate, Private," which tells us exactly nothing.

"Got something," Iris calls after twenty minutes of typing. "The paper's custom, manufactured by a specialty printer in Switzerland. Only three orders in the past year, all shipped to a holding company that traces back to... shit."

"What?"

"The holding company's owned by another holding company, which is owned by a shell corporation, which is registered to..." She pauses, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Preston Wolfe Industries."

The name sends a chill down my spine. Preston Wolfe—old money, serious power, the kind of man who appears on magazine covers and shapes policy from the shadows.

"He's got to be connected to Graham," I murmur. "Maybe he's the one running this whole thing."

"Maybe. But look at this—I managed to get into one of their external servers for about thirty seconds before getting kicked out.

" Iris pulls up a series of screenshots, her expression troubled.

"Whoever's running security on this operation is no joke.

I barely got these before the system locked me out completely. "

The images on her screen make my blood run cold. It's a catalog—dozens of photographs and profiles of beautiful women, laid out like some kind of auction house listing.

And there, on page twelve, is a photo of Sophia Reeves. Me.

The picture is recent, taken at the gallery opening with Graham. I look elegant, sophisticated, exactly like the kind of woman who belongs in places like this. The accompanying text lists my measurements, my supposed background, my "preferences and limitations."

Most of which are complete fiction, but disturbingly detailed fiction.

"Delilah," Iris says quietly, "this feels wrong. Like, really wrong. These women... they're being treated like merchandise."

"It's not that different from high-end escort services," I say, though something cold settles in my stomach as I scan the other profiles. "Rich men paying for beautiful women. Tale as old as time."

"Look at the prize money," she says, pointing to a number at the bottom of the page.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It's not nothing, but it's also not life-changing money. Not for the level of risk this represents.

"The prize money might not be much," I say slowly, "but what about the idea of belonging to one of these men? Having them take care of you forever?"

Iris stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Is that what you want? To be someone's live-in Barbie doll?"

"No," I say quickly. "I guess not. But maybe it's a way to not have to worry so much. About money, about Stanley Torrino, about constantly looking over our shoulders."

"Delilah." Iris's voice is gentle but firm. "I'm worried you're losing yourself in this job. In this Graham guy."

The accusation hits too close to home, making me defensive. "No way. I'm fine.” I shake off whatever doubt I have in my mind. “Forget everything I just said. I’m going to win the Hunt. I’m clever and resourceful. All I need to do is stay hidden for one night. How hard can that be?”

Iris looks at me quizzically. “Sure, but like you said, the prize money isn’t worth as much as a score like ripping off Graham.”

“Sure, but we also win it free and clear. That means no one trying to hunt us down for it. It’s ours. Plus, no one ’s ever won the Hunt before. I bet you there’s a lot of status that would come with something like that.”

“You don’t think that’s a sign? That no one’s ever won it before?”

I shake my head and look back over at the catalog. “No one’s ever been motivated to win quite like me before. And proper motivation can make miracles happen.”

“You think that you win the Hunt and suddenly Torrino just disappears?”

“I think that I win the Hunt and gain a seat in a social circle we’ve never been able to crack. Held by my own merits and not attached to some man who can dump you as soon as he looks at you.”

Iris gives me that sad look. The one that tells me she’s thinking about how the guy that got me into all of this in the first place conned me into giving him most of my small inheritance from my parents before running off never to be seen from again.

How I decided that if men were going to do something like that to me, I was going to do that and worse to them.

“Don’t give me that look,” I say, clearing my throat. “Stanley is closing in," I say, shaking off this entire conversation. "I can handle myself. Don't worry."

Before Iris can respond, my phone buzzes with a text from Graham:

I think I've figured it out.

Figured what out?

Why you keep drugging me.

We need to meet somewhere I can't pass out suspiciously.

Despite everything, I find myself smiling.

What do you propose?

Come work for me.

I stare at the screen, certain I've misread.

What?

Be my assistant.

Keep me organized.

I promise to only pass out during designated business hours.

Why would I agree to come work for you?

Because you're curious about me. Because you want to know what I know about the Hunt. Because I pay extremely well and you'll have access to information that could make your little criminal enterprise much more profitable.

I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Okay. We can keep pretending you don’t.

What's the real reason you want me close?

Can’t a wealthy man want to hire a pretty secretary?

You could hire any pretty secretary. Why me?

For the thrill of never knowing when my coffee might be laced with something interesting. Because I want you close enough to touch. Because watching you pretend to be innocent while plotting my downfall is the most erotic thing I've experienced in years.

My breath catches.

Graham...

Because I want to see what happens when you try to seduce me in broad daylight instead of under cover of darkness.

Think you can handle corrupting me during business hours?

You're the one who needs corrupting?

I've drugged you twice and you're still coming back for more. I think you're already plenty corrupted.

See! You admit to it!

Shit. I got too caught up in the banter.

I’ll be taking this conversation to the police now.

Wait!

Or, you can come work for me and I’ll delete it.

This feels like duress. I liked you better when you weren’t conscious.

You have no idea what I'm capable of when I'm fully conscious. The things I want to do to you... let's just say my office has excellent soundproofing.

Heat floods my cheeks. Even through text, Graham's charm is lethal.

Promises, promises. Though I have to wonder if you can actually follow through when you're not unconscious on a terrace.

Is that a challenge?

It's an observation. You talk a big game for someone who's never managed to stay awake long enough to prove it.

Christ, you're going to be the death of me.

So what do you say, Miss Reeves?

Ready to be the most overqualified assistant in Manhattan?

I promise the benefits package is... comprehensive.

The offer is tempting, dangerously so. Getting close to Graham's business operations, having legitimate access to his world, learning more about the Club from the inside...

What kind of benefits are we talking about?

The kind that require you to stay late. Often. The kind that involve you bent over my desk while I explain exactly what kind of filling system I prefer.

Filing*

Actually, both work.

How presumptuous. Who says I'll be the one bent over your desk? Maybe you're the one who needs to learn about proper... filing techniques.

Fuck. Yes. Teach me, baby.

I’ll learn whatever you want.

Careful, Mr. Ellsworth. That's a dangerous thing to promise someone like me. I might take advantage.

God, I hope so. Please take advantage. Take everything.

You're desperate. It's almost endearing.

I'm honest.

And I'm hard as hell thinking about having you in my office every day, pretending to work while we both know what we really want.

And what do we really want?

I want to fuck you senseless. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.

You're terrible.

I'm honest. So what's your answer?

I look at Iris, who's been reading over my shoulder with increasing alarm.

"Don't do it," she says immediately. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You're getting in too deep."

But the invitation is still in my hand, elegant and threatening and beautiful. Stanley Torrino is getting closer. And Graham Ellsworth might be the key to everything I've ever wanted.

Yes

I type before I can change my mind.

Excellent. Start Monday. My office, 9 AM sharp. Try not to drug the coffee on your first day.

No promises.

God, I hope not.

I set my phone down and find Iris staring at me with the expression of someone watching a friend walk toward a cliff.

"Oh, babe," she says sadly. "You're in way too deep."

"I know what I'm doing," I lie.

But as I look at the Hunt invitation again, at my photo in that catalog, at the text messages that make my pulse race, I'm not sure I believe it anymore.

Maybe Iris is right. Maybe I am losing myself.

But, I’m starting not to care.