Page 9 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

The Aston Martin purrs through Manhattan traffic as I navigate toward the Upper East Side address I pulled from Delilah Monroe's carefully constructed paper trail.

Not Sophia Reeves—that identity is beautifully crafted but ultimately fictional.

No, the woman I'm picking up tonight is someone far more interesting than the art-loving socialite she pretended to be.

Twenty-four hours of investigation yielded a fascinating portrait.

Born Delilah Rose Monroe in Hartford, Connecticut.

Parents died when she was seventeen—tragic accident that left her orphaned and broke.

No extended family, bounced through the foster system until she aged out.

Clean record until she was twenty-one, then a string of identity theft charges across three states, though she's never been convicted.

Always stays one step ahead of the law, always careful enough to avoid serious jail time.

The apartment she's renting under the Sophia Reeves identity is modest but respectable—exactly what someone would expect from a woman with expensive tastes but limited legitimate income. One bedroom, decent neighborhood, short-term lease paid in cash. Smart girl.

What makes this delicious is that everything I've learned only makes me want her more.

She's not some spoiled rich girl playing at being dangerous—she's genuinely dangerous, genuinely intelligent, and apparently genuinely good at what she does.

The fact that she targeted me, specifically, suggests she knows exactly what kind of game she's playing.

If Preston Wolfe knew what I was doing right now, he'd have me killed.

Preston is my mentor in the Club, though that wasn’t how we met.

He was the lawyer handling my grandmother’s estate—why a guy of his caliber bothered with something that small has always been a mystery to me, but oh well.

Somewhere between probate filings and condolences, he decided I wasn’t a complete waste of space.

A year later, I proved myself useful by helping him snag a particularly elusive tech startup before I’d even turned nineteen.

I never had much interest in joining the Owners Club, but three years ago Preston essentially forced my hand after I lost a drunken bet. (I was drunk. He never really drinks.)

He’s old school—silver hair, sharp suits, a man who believes in tradition, rules, and the delicate balance of power that keeps the Club humming in the shadows.

Taking risks with outsiders, especially criminals, is exactly the sort of behavior that makes his perfectly controlled world very, very angry.

But what Preston doesn't know won't hurt his cold, calculating heart. Besides, I've always tested the boundaries of his careful control. It's what makes life interesting.

I pull up outside her building—a converted brownstone that's seen better days but maintains a certain dignity. The kind of place that looks legitimate without being memorable, perfect for someone who needs to blend in.

She emerges exactly on time, and I have to grip the steering wheel to keep my composure.

The black dress she's wearing is a masterpiece of strategic temptation—elegant enough for a gallery opening, fitted enough to make my mouth go dry.

Her blond hair is swept up in a way that shows off the graceful line of her neck, and her makeup is flawless but subtle.

She looks like a million dollars. Which, given her profession, is probably exactly the effect she was going for.

"Good evening, beautiful," I say as she slides into the passenger seat, bringing with her the scent of something expensive and intoxicating.

"Evening yourself," she replies, settling into the leather with a lazy smile. "You look considerably more alert than the last time I saw you."

I laugh, genuinely delighted by her directness. "Yes, well, I have to apologize for my performance that night. I'm usually much better company when I'm conscious."

"Are you?" Her smile is pure mischief. "And here I was thinking you might have stamina issues."

"Stamina issues?" I feign wounded pride. "Miss Reeves, I'll have you know that my stamina is legendary. Under normal circumstances—circumstances that don't involve mysterious substances appearing in my champagne—I can last a solid two minutes."

Her laugh is genuine, unguarded, and it makes something tight in my chest suddenly loosen. This isn't the practiced sound of someone playing a role—this is real amusement, real warmth, and I find myself wanting to hear it again immediately.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, still smiling.

"Please do." I merge into traffic, hyperaware of her presence beside me. "Though I have to ask—is drugging your dates a regular hobby, or was I special?"

Her brows lift in mock confusion. "Drugging you? Maybe the champagne was bad. You really should take it up with the caterer."

"Uh-huh." I give her a sidelong glance. "Funny, because I don’t remember the champagne tasting that way until after your hand brushed my glass."

She just shrugs, all innocence. "Coincidence."

"Most men are easier to handle?"

"Most men are predictable." She adjusts her seatbelt, and the movement draws my attention to the way the dress hugs her curves. "You, Mr. Ellsworth, are proving to be anything but."

The gallery opening is being held in a converted warehouse in Chelsea, the kind of space that screams cutting-edge art and overpriced wine. As we approach the entrance, I can see the usual crowd of New York's cultural elite—artists, collectors, critics, and the wealthy dilettantes who fund it all.

"Nervous?" I ask as we join the queue for the entrance.

"Should I be?"

"Probably. These people can smell outsiders from a mile away." I lean closer, close enough to whisper in her ear. "Lucky for you, I find their disapproval incredibly arousing."

She shivers slightly at my proximity, and I file away that reaction for future reference.

Inside, the gallery is a carefully orchestrated chaos of avant-garde installations and conceptual pieces that challenge every traditional notion of what art should be. Perfect for an evening of intellectual sparring and social maneuvering.

"What do you think?" I ask as we pause in front of a sculpture that appears to be made entirely of discarded credit cards.

"I think someone has strong feelings about consumer culture," she replies, studying the piece with genuine interest. "Though I'm not sure if they're condemning it or celebrating it."

"That's the beauty of good art—it forces you to decide for yourself." I signal a passing waiter for champagne. "No predetermined interpretations, no safe answers."

We move through the gallery together, and I find myself drawn in by her ability to hold her own in these conversations. She discusses technique with artists, debates symbolism with critics, and charms donors with the kind of effortless sophistication that most people spend years trying to perfect.

She's not just playing a role anymore—she's engaged, intelligent, and watching her work a room is like watching a master class in social manipulation.

"You're staring," she murmurs as we pause near a bar installation that involves actual cocktails being served from what appears to be a deconstructed Ferrari.

"Can you blame me?" I accept two glasses of something that sparkles. "You're magnificent when you're in your element."

"This isn't my element," she says, but there's something pleased in her expression.

"Isn't it? Because from where I'm standing, you look like you were born to this." I hand her a glass, letting our fingers brush. "The question is, which version of you is real—the woman who drugs strangers, or the one who can discuss postmodern artistic theory with museum curators?"

She takes a sip of her drink, considering the question. "Maybe people are more complicated than they appear."

"I certainly hope so. Simple people are boring."

As the evening progresses, the energy between us intensifies.

Every conversation becomes an opportunity for subtle flirtation, every glance carries weight, every accidental touch sends electricity shooting through my nervous system.

She matches me move for move, quip for quip, and I find myself working harder to impress her than I have to impress anyone in years.

By the time we reach the end of the exhibition, I'm fairly certain that if I don't touch her properly soon, I might actually combust.

"Well," I say as we step back out onto the sidewalk, the cool night air a welcome relief after the intensity of the gallery, "that was... enlightening."

"It was," she agrees, and there's something different in her voice now—something warmer, more genuine than the careful performance she's been maintaining.

We walk toward where my car is waiting, and I find myself slowing down, reluctant for the evening to end. The smart thing would be to take her home, maintain the careful distance that keeps this game interesting. But I've never been particularly good at doing the smart thing.

"Sophia," I say, watching her freeze mid-step. "Would you like to come back to my hotel with me?"

She turns to face me, and I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes—calculating risks, weighing options, trying to figure out how much I know and what it means.

"I promise not to pass out on you this time," I continue with a grin, "if you promise not to roofie me again."

For a moment, she looks uncertain—like she's not sure whether to run or laugh or possibly both. Then her mouth curves into that dangerous smile that made me notice her in the first place.

"I suppose I could make that deal," she says.

"Excellent." I open the car door for her. "Because I have a feeling this evening is just getting started."