Page 5 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The Ellsworth rises thirty-seven stories into the Manhattan skyline, all glass and steel and understated elegance that whispers wealth rather than shouting it. As I pull my Aston Martin up to the entrance, I catch Sophia's sharp intake of breath from the passenger seat.

"Impressive," she murmurs, and I can't tell if she's genuinely awed or simply playing her part.

"It has its moments," I reply, already enjoying the way her eyes catalog every detail—the uniformed doormen, the pristine marble facade, the discreet but unmistakable signs of serious money.

The valet who opens my door has worked here since opening night. "Good evening, Mr. Ellsworth. Shall I park the car in your usual spot?"

"Please, James. And arrange for the penthouse to be prepared—champagne, the good stuff."

"Of course, sir."

I circle around to open Sophia's door myself, offering my hand as she steps out onto the sidewalk. The scarlet dress catches the light from the hotel's entrance, making her look like something out of a magazine spread. I’m still trying to decide what kind.

"Mr. Ellsworth, welcome back," the doorman says with familiar warmth. "Will you be staying the evening?"

"That remains to be seen, Matthew," I reply, guiding Sophia through the entrance with my hand on her lower back.

The lobby is exactly what I intended when I commissioned it—impressive without being gaudy, expensive without being vulgar.

Cream marble floors, crystal fixtures that cast warm light over carefully curated art pieces, fresh flowers precisely arranged.

The kind of space that makes ordinary people feel small and important people feel at home.

"Good evening, Mr. Ellsworth," the concierge calls from behind his mahogany desk. "Shall I send up the usual amenities?"

"Just the champagne tonight, Robert. We'll see about the rest later."

I feel Sophia's tension increase with each interaction, each casual display of ownership and authority. She's calculating, processing, adjusting her strategy in real time. It's fascinating to watch.

The elevator that takes us to the penthouse is private, requiring a special key card that I produce from my jacket pocket. As we rise through the building, I study her reflection in the polished brass doors.

"Nervous?" I ask.

"Should I be?" she counters, meeting my eyes in the reflection.

"That depends entirely on what you're hoping to accomplish tonight."

The doors open directly into my penthouse, revealing twenty-five hundred square feet of carefully designed living space.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offer panoramic views of the city, while the interior strikes a balance between comfort and intimidation—leather furniture, modern art, a bar that would make most cocktail lounges jealous.

"Jesus," Sophia breathes, abandoning her composure for just a moment as she takes in the view.

"The city looks different from up here," I observe, moving to the bar and retrieving a bottle of Dom Pérignon from the wine fridge. "Distance provides clarity."

"Or isolation," she says, walking toward the windows with the predatory grace I noticed at the auction.

"Same thing, sometimes." I work the cork free, the soft pop echoing in the quiet space. "Champagne?"

"Please."

I pour two glasses, studying her as she continues to explore the space. She's careful not to touch anything, but her eyes still work to catalog every detail—the artwork, the furnishings, the casual indicators of serious wealth scattered throughout the room.

"So," I say, offering her a glass, "tell me about yourself, Sophia Reeves. What brings you to New York?"

She accepts the champagne with a smile that’s far too practiced. "Art, mostly. I've always been passionate about it, and this city has the best galleries, the most interesting collectors."

"Collectors like Martin?"

"Martin is sweet," she says diplomatically, taking a sip of champagne. "Though I get the impression his interests are more... financial than aesthetic."

"And mine?"

She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes. "I haven't figured you out yet."

"Good. I'd hate to be predictable."

We settle onto the leather sofa facing the windows, the city spread out below us like a glittering carpet. The champagne is excellent, and I watch as Sophia relaxes incrementally, her performance becoming more natural, more believable.

"This is incredible," she says, gesturing toward the view. "Do you spend much time here?"

“I pretty much live here at this point. I can’t remember the last time I was at my actual apartment. Something about the height appeals to me. The perspective."

"The power," she suggests, and there's something knowing in her tone.

"Perhaps." I lean closer, letting my thigh brush against hers. "Is power something that appeals to you, Sophia?"

She doesn't pull away, but I feel her muscles tense slightly. "I suppose it depends on how it's used."

"And how would you like it to be used?"

Her laugh is soft, breathless. "Graham... we barely know each other."

"Sometimes the best connections happen between strangers." I set my glass down on the coffee table and turn to face her fully. "No history. No expectations. Just possibility."

"Is that what this is? Possibility?"

Instead of answering, I reach up to brush a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm, soft, and I can feel her pulse jumping beneath my fingertips as I trace the line of her jaw.

"You're very direct," she whispers.

"Life's too short for subtlety."

I lean in, aiming for her lips, but she turns her head at the last moment so my mouth lands on her cheek instead.

"Graham," she says, pulling back slightly. "I can't."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Both. Neither. I don't know." She's flustered now, her careful composure cracking. "This is moving too fast."

"That's what makes it exciting," I murmur, my hand still cupping her face. "The unknown. The risk."

"The risk is exactly the problem." She stands abruptly, moving away from the sofa to create distance between us. "If I... if we... it would ruin everything."

"Ruin what?"

She turns to face me, and for a moment, I see something calculating in her expression before the mask slides back into place. She’s still playing her part, even though maybe she doesn’t want to.

"Any chance I might have of being invited to the Hunt."

I go completely still, every sense suddenly hyperalert.

"What did you say?"

She realizes immediately that she's made a mistake, but she's too smart to try to backtrack completely. "I... I've heard things. Rumors. About some kind of exclusive event..."

"What kind of rumors?" I keep my voice carefully neutral, but my mind is racing. How the hell does she know about the Hunt?

"Nothing specific," she says quickly. "Just whispers. Elite circles, powerful men, beautiful women. The kind of thing people talk about at parties when they've had too much wine."

I study her face, looking for tells, for signs of deception. She's good—better than I initially gave her credit for—but she's also clearly fishing for information.

"And you want an invitation to this mythical event?"

"I don't even know what it is," she says, which is probably the first completely honest thing she's said all evening. "But if it's something that attracts men like you..."

"Men like me?"

"Wealthy. Powerful. Dangerous." She meets my eyes directly. "It might be worth experiencing."

I pick up my champagne glass, taking a slow sip while I process this new information. Sophia Reeves—or whoever she really is—knows about the Hunt. Not everything, clearly, but enough to recognize its significance.

"The Hunt isn't something you can research," I say finally. "It's not something you can prepare for or strategize about. It's something you experience or you don't."

"But invitations exist."

"They do."

"And you could arrange one."

"I could." I take another sip of champagne, savoring both the vintage and the growing complexity of this conversation. "The question is why I would want to."

She laughs softly, brushing a non-existent wrinkle from her dress as she shifts closer. Her hand briefly passes near my glass, like she’s steadying herself against the table, but it’s nothing—barely noticeable.

"Maybe because you're curious about what I'd do with the opportunity," she suggests.

"I'm curious about a lot of things when it comes to you." I lift the glass again, catching the faintest flick of movement, and a thought flits through my head—did she just…? Nah. Probably nothing. Or maybe something. Hell, could be fun. YOLO, right?

The champagne is smooth going down, but the aftertaste is… odd. Not bad, just… medicinal.

"Such as?"

My tongue feels thick. "Such as what you really want from Martin Pemberton. Such as why you know about the Hunt when most people have never heard of it."

The exhaustion rolls in like surf, heavy and relentless. And then it clicks, too late—fuck. She roofied me. Dammit. I was hoping for a little MDMA, not lights-out champagne.

"Sophia," I say, my voice already slurring slightly, "what did you put in my drink?"

Her smile is sharp, predatory, nothing like the sunshine expression she's been wearing all evening. "Just something to help you relax. Nothing permanent."

I try to stand, but my legs aren't cooperating. The room is starting to blur around the edges, and I find myself sinking back into the leather cushions.

"Clever," I manage, though speaking is becoming increasingly difficult. "Very clever."

"I do try."

As consciousness begins to slip away, I find myself completely captivated despite the circumstances. She played me perfectly—let me think I was in control while she orchestrated the entire evening toward this moment.

My last coherent thought before the darkness takes me is that she’d better answer when I call.