Page 6 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)
Delilah
The moment Graham's eyes flutter closed and his breathing evens out, I allow myself exactly thirty seconds to process what just happened.
He knew. In those final moments before the sedative took hold, he figured out exactly what I'd done—and instead of being angry or afraid, he looked almost.. . impressed.
That should terrify me. Men like Graham Ellsworth don't get where they are by being easy to fool, and if he was analyzing my methods even as he lost consciousness, it means I'm dealing with someone far more dangerous than I initially calculated.
The sedative trick usually works like a charm on my targets.
A little pharmaceutical assistance on the first night serves multiple purposes—it keeps wandering hands to themselves and puts them on the defensive afterward.
Most men are so embarrassed about falling asleep during what they assumed would be a conquest that they overcompensate trying to prove their virility.
Makes them sloppy. Predictable. Easy to manipulate.
But Graham's reaction suggests he won't be nearly so simple. Instead of shame, I saw calculation in those dark eyes. Instead of wounded pride, there was something that looked suspiciously like respect.
He's exactly the kind of challenge I've been looking for—and exactly the kind of danger I should probably run from.
I move quickly through the penthouse, careful not to disturb anything that might indicate my presence beyond what's already obvious. The space is immaculate, organized with the kind of precision that speaks to a mind that likes control. Everything has its place, every detail carefully curated.
There’s an office setup behind a set of mahogany doors.
The desk is massive, polished to a mirror shine, with a computer setup that looks like something from a NASA control room.
I don't touch anything—too risky—but I photograph what I can with my phone.
Business cards scattered across the desk, appointment calendars, the spines of books arranged on built-in shelves.
It definitely looks like he lives here on an almost-permanent basis.
Graham Ellsworth doesn't just have money; he has wealth and influence. The office walls are lined with photographs of him shaking hands with politicians, tech moguls, people whose faces I recognize from magazine covers and news broadcasts.
This isn't just some rich playboy with family money. This is a man who shapes the world according to his will.
I snap pictures of everything I can without leaving obvious evidence of snooping, then move back to the living room where Graham remains unconscious on the sofa.
He looks younger in sleep, some of the sharp edges of his face softened by vulnerability.
There's something almost beautiful about him like this—all that dangerous intelligence temporarily silenced.
For a moment, I consider staying. Part of me is tempted to see what happens when he wakes up. But that's not how this game works. The power dynamic needs to remain in my favor, which means I disappear before he can regain control of the situation.
I grab my clutch and take one last look around the penthouse, committing details to memory. Then I slip out through the private elevator, using the key card Graham carelessly left on the coffee table.
The lobby is nearly empty at this hour, just a skeleton crew of night staff who nod politely as I pass. If they're curious about why I'm leaving alone while Mr. Ellsworth remains upstairs, they're too well-trained to show it.
The cab ride back to my real apartment takes twenty minutes through late-night Manhattan traffic. I spend the time texting Iris, my fingers flying across the phone screen as I relay everything I learned tonight.
Target acquired. G.E. owns the Ellsworth Hotel. Knows about the Hunt. Highly intelligent, potentially very dangerous. Need full background ASAP.
Already on it. Your location pinged from Midtown. Are you safe?
For now. Coming home.
The apartment I share with Iris is a fourth-floor walkup in Brooklyn, about as far from the Ellsworth penthouse as you can get without leaving the state.
The building is old, the stairs creak, and the radiator makes sounds like a dying animal, but it's ours—paid for in cash, untraceable, with enough security equipment hidden in the walls to make Fort Knox jealous.
Iris is waiting for me when I walk through the door, her laptop open on our kitchen table, multiple monitors displaying information that's already making my head spin.
"Jesus, Delilah," she says without looking up from her screens. "What kind of hornet's nest did you kick tonight?"
"The profitable kind, I hope." I kick off the designer heels—my feet are killing me—and start working on the zipper of the Valentino dress. "What did you find?"
"Graham Ellsworth, thirty-three, net worth approximately four-point-seven billion dollars.
" Her fingers dance across the keyboard, pulling up financial records that probably shouldn't be accessible to anyone outside the IRS.
"Self-made, mostly. Started with a small inheritance from his grandmother and turned it into a tech empire before he was twenty-five. "
I strip out of the dress and pull on an oversized t-shirt and shorts, instantly feeling more like myself. Sophia Reeves was beautiful and poised and everything these men wanted, but she was also exhausting to maintain. Being able to breathe properly has its advantages.
"What kind of tech?" I ask, settling into the chair across from Iris.
"Data analytics. Security systems. The kind of stuff that governments and corporations pay obscene amounts of money for.
" She pulls up a new window, showing corporate filings and board memberships.
"Then he’s leveraged that money in real estate investments and made it grow even larger.
But here's where it gets interesting—he's connected to at least three other companies that have been linked to rumors about the Owner's Club. "
My pulse quickens. "What kind of connections?"
"Shell companies, mostly. Funding sources that trace back to the same investment group.
Board members who cross-reference with known Club associates.
" She turns the laptop toward me so I can see the web of connections she's mapped out.
"If the Owner's Club is real—and based on what I think you’re about to tell me, it definitely is—then Graham Ellsworth isn't just a member.
He's probably one of the people running it. "
I stare at the screen, processing the implications.
I thought I was targeting an old-money wealthy businessman with potential Club connections.
Instead, I've apparently just drugged one of the organization's key figures and a self-made man. I feel a level of respect for him that’s dangerous for me to feel about a target. Iris seems to pick up on it.
“Delilah," Iris says, her voice unusually serious. "Are you sure you want to pursue this? This isn't some trust fund baby we can bilk for a few hundred thousand and disappear. This is a man who could have us both killed and make it look like an accident."
"Could he?" I ask, genuinely curious rather than afraid.
Iris stares at me like I've lost my mind. "Did you not hear the part about him being worth nearly five billion dollars? Or the part about him potentially running a secret society of powerful men who treat women like collectibles?"
"I heard all of it." I lean back in my chair, mind racing through possibilities and strategies. "But I also spent three hours with him tonight, and you know what I learned?"
"That you have a death wish?"
"That he's bored." I can still see Graham's face as he studied me across the auction room, the genuine interest that sparked when he realized I was playing a game.
"Men like Graham Ellsworth have everything—money, power, influence.
The only thing they don't have is a real challenge.
Someone who can match them move for move. "
"And you think you're that someone?"
I consider the question seriously. Graham figured out what I was doing almost immediately, yet he played along anyway. He let me drug him—hell, he seemed to appreciate that I'd had the balls to try it. That's not the behavior of a man who sees me as a threat.
It's the behavior of a man who's finally found something interesting.
"I think," I say slowly, "that Graham Ellsworth and I are going to have a very profitable relationship. For both of us."
Iris shakes her head, but she's already pulling up new screens, diving deeper into Graham's background and connections. "Fine. But we do this smart. No more improvising, no more going in blind. If we're going to play in his league, we need to know everything."
"Agreed." I reach for my phone, scrolling through the photos I took of his office. "But first, I need to figure out how to get his attention again."
"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Iris says dryly. "Something tells me Graham Ellsworth isn't the type to let this go."
She's probably right. Men like Graham don't get outmaneuvered often, and when they do, they tend to take it personally. Which means our next encounter is going to be even more dangerous than the first.
I can't wait.