Page 64 of His to Hunt (The Owner’s Club #1)

Delilah Monroe

The scarlet Bainentino dress clings to my body like liquid fire, every stitch precisely tailored to create the illusion of effortless perfection.

I've spent three hours getting ready for tonight—hair, makeup, accessories—all carefully calculated to project the image of a woman who belongs in these rarefied circles.

The kind of woman who can drop fifteen thousand dollars on a painting without checking her bank balance first.

If only they knew the truth.

My name isn't actually Sophia Reeves, though I've been wearing that identity for six months now.

The real me—Delilah Monroe—wouldn't last five minutes in a place like the Metropolitan Opera House.

But Sophia? She fits right in with these people, speaks their language, knows which fork to use for the salad course.

Sophia is everything I've never been and everything I need to be to survive in this world.

"You look absolutely radiant tonight, darling," Marcus Pemberton murmurs beside me, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. His touch makes my skin crawl, but I lean into it anyway, painting a pleased smile across my lips.

"Thank you," I purr, letting my fingers trail along his arm. "I'm so excited to be here. I've never been to an auction like this before."

The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. This is actually my fourth charity auction this year, though never with stakes quite this high. Marcus represents my entry point into something much bigger than his moderately impressive trust fund—access to the Owner's Club.

Most people in New York have never heard of it. Those who have speak of it only in whispers, treating it like an urban legend. But I know better. I've seen the evidence, pieced together the connections, followed the money trails that all lead back to the same shadowy organization of powerful men.

It was actually Luna Laurent's story that first put me on the trail.

Not the sanitized version that made it into the society pages—the real story, the one that emerged in fragments through leaked police reports and hospital records that my partner Iris managed to access.

A young woman from a prominent family, kidnapped and held captive, rescued by her billionaire lover who killed her captor in what was ruled justifiable homicide.

The official story painted it as a tragic case of stalking gone wrong.

But when you looked deeper, when you followed the connections between the victim, the perpetrator, and the man who saved her, patterns emerged.

References to hunts, to collections, to an exclusive club that operated by rules most people couldn't imagine.

That's when I knew I'd found my target market.

The Owner's Club doesn't just represent money—it represents the kind of money that operates above laws, above consequences, above the normal rules that govern society. The kind of money worth taking risks for.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, hidden in the small clutch that matches my dress perfectly. I excuse myself from Marcus's tedious story about his polo ponies, claiming I need to powder my nose, and step away to check the message.

It's from Iris, as expected. A simple text that looks innocuous to anyone who might glimpse it over my shoulder: Dinner reservation confirmed for 8pm. Balance: $847K liquid, $2.3M tied up in investments. Clean credit.

I bite back a satisfied smile. Marcus's financial profile is even better than we'd hoped.

More importantly, his accounts show the kind of regular large transfers that suggest involvement in something beyond legitimate business dealings.

Exactly what I'd expect from someone with connections to the Owner's Club.

The best part? Tonight's little performance with the Thomas Cole painting will cost him absolutely nothing in the long run.

Iris arranged for one of her contacts at the auction house to include it in tonight's lots—a piece we already own, purchased months ago for a fraction of what Marcus will pay tonight.

After the auction, it will be "donated" back to the charity, minus our generous commission, and eventually find its way back to us through a labyrinthine series of shell companies and art dealers.

It's almost too easy. These people have so much money they've lost track of what things are actually worth. A fifteen-thousand-dollar impulse purchase barely registers on their radar.

I'm sliding my phone back into my clutch when I feel it—the weight of someone's gaze, deliberate and unwavering. My instincts, honed by years of reading people and situations, immediately go on high alert.

I turn slowly, scanning the crowd with the casual indifference of someone simply people-watching. That's when I see him.

Graham Ellsworth stands near the front of the auction hall, positioned at a table with three other people who radiate the kind of quiet power that money can't buy.

Even from this distance, he's striking—tall and lean with dark blond hair that's just messy enough to suggest he doesn't try too hard, wearing a tuxedo that's been tailored to perfection.

But it's not his appearance that catches my attention.

It's the way he's looking at me.

Not with the hungry appreciation I'm used to from men like Marcus, or the calculating assessment of a potential business partner. Graham Ellsworth is studying me with the focused intensity of someone who's just spotted something interesting—and potentially dangerous.

Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and he smiles. Not the polite social smile these events demand, but something sharper, more knowing. Like he's just figured out the punchline to a joke I didn't realize I was telling.

My pulse quickens, though I'm careful not to let it show on my face. Graham Ellsworth is exactly the kind of man I've been hoping to attract—wealthy beyond measure, powerful beyond counting, and smart enough to be genuinely challenging. Everything about him screams Owner's Club material.

But there's something in his expression that makes me uneasy. A recognition that goes beyond simple attraction or interest. Almost like he knows exactly what game I'm playing.

Which is impossible. My Sophia Reeves identity is flawless—Iris made sure of that. Background, credit history, social media presence going back years. There's no way he could know anything about the real me.

Unless he's better at reading people than I gave him credit for.

I hold his gaze for exactly three seconds—long enough to acknowledge the connection, not long enough to seem desperate—then turn back to Marcus with a bright smile.

"Sorry about that," I say, slipping my arm through his. "I thought I saw someone I knew, but I was mistaken."

"No harm done, darling." Marcus's attention is already shifting back to the auction stage, where they're preparing to present the next lot. "Ah, here we go. Let's see if we can find you something special tonight."

The irony isn't lost on me. He has no idea he's about to buy me my own painting.

The auctioneer calls for attention, and I let myself get swept up in the performance I've rehearsed a dozen times. The excited art lover, new to this world, relying on her more experienced companion to guide her through the intricacies of high-stakes bidding.

"Lot seventeen," the auctioneer announces, "a charming landscape by Hudson River School artist Thomas Cole. We'll start the bidding at five thousand dollars."

I straighten with carefully calibrated interest, letting my breath catch just slightly. "Oh, Marcus," I whisper, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. "I've loved his work since college. Do you think...?"

Marcus puffs up with masculine pride, exactly as I knew he would. "Of course, darling. Consider it an early Christmas present."

"Six thousand," he calls out, raising his paddle with the casual confidence of someone who's never had to worry about money.

I lean closer to him, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper my thanks. From the corner of my eye, I notice Graham Ellsworth still watching, his attention split between the auction proceedings and our little tableau. The intensity of his focus sends an unexpected thrill down my spine.

When the bidding reaches seven thousand, I raise my own paddle, playing up the excitement of a novice who's gotten caught up in the moment. "Sorry," I stage-whisper to Marcus. "I got carried away."

He laughs indulgently, and we continue the charade as the price climbs. Other bidders drop out as we push past ten thousand, then twelve, then fifteen. By the time the gavel falls, declaring me the winner at fifteen thousand dollars, I'm practically vibrating with manufactured enthusiasm.

"Sold to the lady in red for fifteen thousand dollars!"

I clap my hands together in delight—not entirely manufactured, since this represents a tidy profit on our initial investment—and throw my arms around Marcus in celebration. He looks slightly stunned by the final price, but recovers quickly, basking in the attention from nearby tables.

"Congratulations, darling," he says, though I can practically see him calculating the dent in his evening's entertainment budget.

"I can't believe we got it," I gush, maintaining the performance even though the hard part is over. "Thank you so much. This is the most incredible night."

As we settle back into our seats and the auction moves on to the next lot, I'm acutely aware that Graham Ellsworth's attention hasn't wavered. If anything, his interest seems to have intensified after watching our little performance.

Part of me knows I should be concerned. Men like Graham Ellsworth don't get where they are by being easy to fool. If he's suspicious of me, it could complicate everything I've worked toward.

But another part of me—the part that's been playing it safe for too long, taking smaller scores, staying in the shadows—is intrigued by the challenge he represents.

Graham Ellsworth isn't just wealthy; he's dangerous.

The kind of man who could either destroy me completely or elevate me to levels I've never imagined.

The auction continues around us, but I find my attention split between maintaining my cover with Marcus and stealing glances at the man who's managed to completely captivate my interest in the span of a single evening.

When the final lot is sold and the crowd begins to disperse, I'm not entirely surprised to see Graham Ellsworth making his way through the crowd in our direction. Every step is measured, purposeful, like a predator who's identified his target and is moving in for the kill.

Marcus notices him approaching and straightens defensively, clearly recognizing the threat even if he doesn't understand its nature.

But I'm not afraid. If anything, I'm exhilarated. Finally, a worthy opponent.

The game is about to get interesting.