Page 62 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

BECKETT

Six months later, the Metropolitan Museum of Art hums with anticipation.

The exhibition—"DUALITY: The Works of Luna Laurent"—opens to the public tomorrow, but tonight belongs to the private viewing.

Critics, collectors, museum patrons, and celebrities move through the space in elegant formal wear, champagne flutes in hand as they admire the thirty canvases that have established Luna Laurent as one of the most compelling emerging artists of her generation.

I stand in the doorway of the main gallery, watching her.

Luna moves through the crowd with effortless grace, dressed in a gown of midnight blue that catches the light with each movement.

Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and around her throat—not a collar, not a claim, but a delicate gold necklace she chose for herself.

She laughs at something a curator says, her entire face lighting up with the kind of joy that still catches me off guard when I witness it .

Six months. Half a year since I removed the collar, since we chose each other. No labels, just her and I.

In that time, everything has changed—and somehow, nothing has.

We still live in the penthouse, though Luna maintains the SoHo apartment as her primary studio space.

We still share a bed, still wake wrapped around each other, still can't keep our hands off each other even after all this time.

But the dynamic between us has evolved into something I never could have imagined when I first saw her across that ballroom floor.

Partnership. Equality. Choice renewed each day.

"She's magnificent," Sebastian says, appearing beside me with two glasses of champagne. He hands me one, following my gaze to where Luna stands.

"Yes," I agree simply. "She is."

"And happy," he observes, studying me with that perceptive gaze that misses nothing. "You both are."

I take a sip of champagne rather than responding directly.

Sebastian doesn't need confirmation of what he can clearly see.

The transformative months since the gallery reopening have changed us both—Luna into the confident artist commanding the room, me into someone capable of standing beside her rather than above her.

"The reviews are already coming in," Sebastian continues. "The Times is calling her 'the most important new voice in contemporary art.' The Journal says her work 'redefines trauma narratives through a lens of earned resilience.'"

"She deserves it," I say, pride warming my chest as I watch her explain one of her larger canvases to a group of admirers.

Sebastian's expression turns thoughtful. "You know, when you first claimed her, I thought it was just another acquisition. Something to possess and control, like everything else. "

"It was," I admit. "At first."

"And now?"

I consider the question carefully, wanting to give him a true answer. "Now I know that the most valuable things in life can't be acquired. They can only be honored. Cherished. Chosen."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "That's remarkably philosophical coming from you."

"She's been a good influence," I reply with a small smile.

"Clearly." He glances at his watch, then back at me. "You should go. It's almost time."

I nod, draining my champagne and handing him the empty glass. "Wish me luck."

"You don't need it," he assures me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "But good luck anyway."

I move through the crowded gallery toward Luna, who has just finished her conversation with the museum director. Her eyes find mine across the room, lighting up with the kind of recognition that still makes my heart skip a beat after all this time.

"There you are," she says as I reach her. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me to the wolves."

"Never," I promise, allowing myself to brush a strand of hair from her face. A small gesture of affection, freely given and received. "But I do need to borrow you for a moment."

She glances around at the bustling exhibition. "Now? We're in the middle of?—"

"Five minutes," I assure her. "That's all I need."

Curiosity fills her expression, but she nods, allowing me to guide her through a side door into one of the museum's smaller galleries—currently empty, the lighting subdued, the space quiet compared to the busy main hall .

"What's this about?" she asks, turning to face me once the door closes behind us.

"I have something for you," I reply, reaching into the inner pocket of my suit jacket. "A gift."

Her eyebrow lifts slightly. "Should I be worried?"

"Not this time," I promise, withdrawing a small, flat box wrapped in simple black paper.

She takes it, studying the package with that artist's eye that misses nothing. "What's the occasion?"

"Your triumph," I reply simply. "Your exhibition. Your future."

She unwraps the gift carefully, lifting the lid of the box to reveal what lies within. Her breath catches audibly.

Inside, nestled on black velvet, is a gold bracelet unlike any other—delicate but strong, formed of two intertwined bands that flow together without beginning or end.

One band is textured with tiny brushstrokes, like those from her paintings.

The other is smooth, polished to a high sheen.

Where they join, a small inscription is visible on the inner surface.

"Partnership," she reads, her voice soft with wonder. "Not possession."

"The words you said to me that night," I explain, watching her face carefully. "The night everything changed."

She lifts the bracelet from the box, turning it in the low light, examining every detail with the appreciation of someone who understands craftsmanship and intention.

"It's not a collar," I continue, needing her to understand completely. "Not ownership. Just a reminder of what we've become to each other. What we continue to choose every day."

"It's beautiful," she whispers.

"May I?" I ask, gesturing to the bracelet.

She nods, extending her wrist toward me. I fasten the bracelet around it with careful fingers, the clasp designed to be both secure and easily removed. Her choice, always her choice.

"Perfect," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist where her pulse beats strong and steady.

"I love it," she says, studying the way the gold catches the light. Then, with deliberate emphasis, "I love you."

The words still feel new, still carry weight and wonder despite how often we've spoken them in recent months. "I love you too," I reply, meaning it completely.

She rises on her toes, pressing a kiss to my lips that lingers just long enough to promise more later. When she pulls back, her expression is mischievous.

"We should get back," she says, tracing a finger along my jaw. "People will talk."

"Let them," I reply, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "It's your night. We'll return when you're ready."

"Our night," she corrects, eyes bright with happiness. "Our future."

The words settle between us, weighted with possibility, with potential, with promises yet to be made and kept. She's right, of course. After everything we've been through, everything we've become to each other, there is no more "yours" or "mine." Only "ours."

We return to the exhibition hand in hand. As two people who chose each other not once in a moment of claiming, but every day in a thousand small acts of love.

Three weeks after the exhibition opening, I find Luna in her SoHo studio, afternoon light streaming through the tall windows, painting with the focused intensity that still mesmerizes me after all this time.

She doesn't notice me at first, too absorbed in her work, brush moving with confident strokes across a large canvas.

I stop in the doorway, content to watch without interrupting.

She's wearing one of my shirts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hair piled messily atop her head, bare feet tapping absently to whatever plays through her headphones.

The gold bracelet catches the light with each movement of her wrist, a constant reminder of our mutual choice.

When she finally senses my presence and turns, her smile is like sunrise breaking across her face. She pulls off her headphones, setting them aside.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asks, wiping her hands on a nearby cloth.

"Long enough," I reply, crossing the space between us.

She steps back, giving me a clear view of the canvas. "What do you think?"

I study the painting carefully, taking in every detail. It's me—unmistakably me, captured in oils with the precision and insight that makes her work so powerful. But unlike the first portrait she ever painted of me, this one contains no darkness, no shadow, no threat.

Instead, I stand bathed in golden light, surrounded not by storm clouds but by clear skies. My expression is open, unguarded, revealing the man I've become rather than the one I was. The man who learned to replace control with trust.

"It's how you see me," I observe quietly.

She nods, coming to stand beside me, studying her work with critical eyes. "How I see you now. How you really are."

I wrap an arm around her waist, drawing her against my side, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Only because of you."

"No," she corrects gently. "You were always capable of this. Of being this man. You just needed someone to see past the darkness to the light underneath."

I consider her words, feeling their truth resonate through me. What began as claiming has become choice. And in that transformation, we've both found versions of ourselves we never knew existed.

"So," I ask, nodding toward the canvas, "does this one have a title yet?"

Luna smiles, leaning into me, her head resting against my shoulder as we both contemplate the painting that captures not just my image, but our journey.

"Becoming," she says simply.

And in that single word is everything—our past, our present, our future. The darkness we survived and the light we found. The possession that became partnership. The claiming that became choice.

The endless possibilities of the life we're creating together.

The End.