Page 7 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)
Graham
Consciousness returns like a slow tide, bringing with it the familiar weight of expensive champagne and something else entirely. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, and there's a metallic taste in my mouth that definitely wasn't there when I went to sleep.
I blink at the ceiling of my penthouse, taking inventory. Still alive—always a good start. Still in my tuxedo from last night, though my bow tie is missing and my shirt is wrinkled. The penthouse is exactly as I left it, minus one very important detail.
No beautiful blonde con artist anywhere to be seen.
I start laughing before I can stop myself. The sound echoes through the empty space, rich and genuinely delighted. She actually did it. She actually drugged me and disappeared into the night like some kind of gorgeous, larcenous ghost.
My phone buzzes insistently from the coffee table where I apparently left it. The screen shows seventeen missed calls and forty-three text messages, most of them from a group chat labeled "Idiots United" that consists of myself, Sebastian, and Beckett.
I scroll through the messages, my grin widening with each increasingly dramatic text:
Sebastian (3:47 AM)
Graham's been radio silent for 6 hours. Think he's dead?
Beckett (3:52 AM)
Probably just busy. Give it another hour.
Sebastian (4:15 AM)
Still nothing. I'm calling it. He's definitely dead.
Beckett (4:16 AM)
You said that when he went to Tokyo for a week without telling us.
Sebastian (4:17 AM)
This is different. He was supposed to activate his silent alarm by now.
Beckett (4:18 AM)
His Hello Kitty panic button?
Sebastian (4:19 AM)
Don't mock the Hello Kitty panic button. It's surprisingly effective.
Beckett (4:20 AM)
Only Graham would choose Hello Kitty as his emergency signal.
Sebastian (4:21 AM)
Says the man whose safe word is "vanilla"
Beckett (4:22 AM)
That was ONE TIME and you swore you'd never mention it
Sebastian (5:30 AM)
$500 says she killed him and dumped the body
Beckett (5:31 AM)
You're on. $500 says he's fine and just got lucky
Sebastian (7:45 AM)
It's been 8 hours. No Hello Kitty signal. No response to texts. I'm collecting my money.
Beckett (7:46 AM)
Give it until noon. Then you can have your blood money.
Sebastian (8:15 AM)
Should we call the police?
Beckett (8:16 AM)
And tell them what? Our friend went home with a beautiful woman and we're worried she murdered him?
Sebastian (8:17 AM)
When you put it like that it sounds less concerning
Sebastian (9:30 AM)
Okay it's been 10 hours. Graham is definitely dead. I'll plan the funeral.
Beckett (9:31 AM)
What makes you so sure she's dangerous?
Sebastian (9:32 AM)
Did you see the way she played Pemberton? That woman is lethal.
Beckett (9:33 AM)
Fair point.
Sebastian (10:45 AM)
I'm ordering flowers. What's Graham's favorite? Roses? Lilies?
Beckett (10:46 AM)
Probably something expensive and obnoxious. Go with orchids.
I'm still chuckling as I type my response:
Graham (11:02 AM)
Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated
The response is immediate:
Sebastian
GRAHAM YOU ASSHOLE
Beckett
Well well. Pay up, Sebastian.
Sebastian
Damn. There goes my $500.
Beckett
How are you not dead?
Graham
Disappointed?
Sebastian
Slightly. I was looking forward to inheriting your wine collection.
My head aches, sharp and relentless, and the phone screen’s only making it worse. I hit the call button and add both of them to a three-way call.
"Graham!" Sebastian's voice is absurdly relieved. "You sound terrible."
"Feel worse," I admit, pressing the heel of my hand against my temple. "Can't look at screens right now without wanting to vomit."
"What the hell happened?" Beckett's voice cuts in.
"She drugged me."
There's a moment of stunned silence, then Sebastian starts laughing. "Oh, this is rich. I can't believe she actually drugged you."
"Beckett was right," I point out. "You should give him another hundred on top of the original bet."
“That wasn’t the deal,” Sebastian protests.
Beckett clicks his tongue. "New bet. Pay up."
Before I can respond to their ridiculous gambling habits, my penthouse door opens and Mrs. Kim, my head housekeeper, bustles in with the kind of determined energy that usually means I'm about to be lectured. She’s barely five feet tall, seventy-something if she’s a day, and somehow scarier than any boardroom shark I’ve ever faced.
An elderly Korean woman with iron-gray hair wound into a bun sharp enough to cut glass, Mrs. Kim has the uncanny ability to make me feel eight years old and in trouble with the principal every time she walks in the room.
"Mr. Ellsworth!" She takes one look at me sprawled on the sofa in my wrinkled tuxedo and immediately switches to the tone she uses when she's particularly disappointed in my life choices. "What you do to yourself? You look terrible!"
"Good morning to you too, Mrs. Kim," I say weakly.
"Don’t ‘good morning’ me. Look this mess!" She gestures at my general state of dishevelment. "When last time you shower? Change clothes? You smell like distillery."
"I was drugged," I offer helpfully.
"Drugged!" She throws her hands up in exasperation. "This happen when you bring strange women home! I warn you before!"
"Actually," Sebastian’s voice crackles through the phone, "we’re kind of curious about the drugging part?—"
"Who that?" Mrs. Kim demands, eyeing my phone suspiciously.
"Sebastian and Beckett," I explain, trying to stand up and immediately regretting it as the room tilts sideways.
"Those troublemakers," she mutters. "Always encourage your bad behavior."
"We can hear you, Mrs. Kim," Beckett says dryly.
"Good! Then you talk sense into him. Look this place—clothes everywhere, champagne glasses on table. And he need shower!"
"Mrs. Kim, I’m fine?—"
"You not fine! You mess! Come, I run you bath."
"I don’t need a bath," I protest, but she’s already herding me toward the bathroom with the kind of determination that has made her indispensable for the past five years.
"Everyone need bath after drugged by strange women," she declares. "This old Korean saying."
"She wasn’t strange," I find myself saying, then immediately regret it as Mrs. Kim’s eyes narrow dangerously.
"Not strange? She drug you!"
"Yeah, Graham," Sebastian chimes in from the phone, "what kind of woman drugs someone on the first date?"
"The interesting kind," I reply, which makes Mrs. Kim throw her hands up again.
"Impossible! You impossible!"
I duck away from her attempts to physically drag me to the bathroom, holding up one finger. "Give me five minutes to finish this call, and then I promise I’ll shower."
She eyes me suspiciously but retreats to the kitchen, muttering in Korean about stubborn men and their terrible life choices.
"So," Beckett says once she's out of earshot, "you were saying she drugged you?"
"With style," I confirm, lowering my voice. "But here's the interesting part—she knows about the Hunt."
The silence on the other end is immediate and heavy.
"Graham," Sebastian says carefully, "please tell me you didn't just say what I think you said."
"She mentioned it. Not in detail, but she knows it exists."
"Then she definitely shouldn't be getting closer to you," Beckett says firmly. "That's exactly the kind of woman who should be kept as far away from Club business as possible."
"Maybe," I say, settling back onto the sofa despite Mrs. Kim’s disapproving glares from the kitchen. "Or maybe I subscribe to the 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer' philosophy."
"Your enemies closer?" Sebastian's voice rises an octave. "Graham, she drugged you!"
"And it was the most excitement I've had in months."
"You have a death wish," Beckett observes.
"Maybe. But what a way to go." I can't keep the grin out of my voice. "Besides, think about it—when was the last time any of us met someone genuinely unpredictable?"
"There's unpredictable, and then there's potentially homicidal," Sebastian points out.
"Details."
"You know what your problem is?" Beckett says. "You've been bored for too long. This is what happens when life gets too easy—you start looking for danger in all the wrong places."
"Says the man who fell for an artist after kidnapping her."
"That was different," Beckett protests.
"How?"
"Luna didn't drug me on our first date."
"No, you just held her captive for weeks. Much more traditional."
Sebastian snorts. "He's got you there, Beck."
"I hate both of you," Beckett mutters.
Mrs. Kim appears at my elbow again, this time carrying fresh clothes and wearing an expression that suggests my five minutes are up.
"Alright, guys, I have to go before Mrs. Kim stages an intervention."
"Just promise us you won't do anything stupid," Sebastian says.
"Define stupid."
"Anything involving the woman who drugged you!"
"Can't promise that. But I'll try not to die."
"That's not reassuring!" Sebastian calls out, but I'm already hanging up.
Mrs. Kim immediately swoops in, gathering up champagne glasses and muttering about the sorry state of modern romance. "In my day, men courted women proper. With flowers and respect. Not with drugging!"
"Technically, she drugged me?—"
“Same difference! Now go shower before I get my slipper.”
Experience has taught me that Mrs. Kim with a slipper is not a bluff I want to test twice, so I haul myself toward the bathroom. But as I pass my home office, I catch sight of my computer setup—multiple monitors, encrypted connections, access to databases most people don’t even know exist.
"Mrs. Kim," I call out, "actually, I need to take care of something first. Business."
"Business wait. Hygiene no."
"Five minutes. I promise."
She gives me a look that suggests she's calculating whether it's worth the effort to physically drag me to the shower, then sighs dramatically. "Five minutes! Then bath!"
I slip into my office and close the door, settling into my chair as the computers hum to life. My head is still pounding, but there's a familiar thrill running through my veins—the same feeling I get when I'm about to acquire a particularly challenging company or close an especially complex deal.
I crack my knuckles and pull up my private investigator software.
Time to find out exactly who Miss Sophia Reeves really is.