Page 145 of Their Arrangement

My name was written on the tag again—this time in black ink, block letters. I reached for the zipper with trembling fingers.

Inside—a gown.

Midnight velvet. Cool against my skin. Sleek. Silent.

Backless.

Slit high enough to show skin no dress had ever dared on me before.

My breath caught. This wasn’t fashion. It was strategy. He’d chosen it. Not for comfort. Not for elegance. For impact. The kind that left marks without touching.

I checked the tag—half-expecting a designer label.

Instead, just two hand-stitched initials.

W.L.

Wolfe Lawlor.

Of course.

The venue was a private gallery downtown. It rose from the street like something carved into history. Columns. Stonework. Steel and shadow.

All marble and mirrored walls on the inside—like stepping into a vault built to reflect power. Low lighting pooled at every corner. Glasses clinked. Laughter was hushed and calculated. Men in tailored suits stood like monuments. Women in backless gowns whispered with sharpened smiles.

The air shimmered with money and danger. I didn’t belong. But when I stepped inside? Every head turned. Not because they recognized me. Because they didn’t.

Royal found me first. His smirk cut through the noise like a blade. He didn’t offer a hand. He offered a warning.

“Well, well,” he murmured, gaze dragging down the length of me like I was the evening’s first bid. “They dressed you up like a gift. Wonderwhogets to unwrap it.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because Wolfe stepped in behind me.

I felt him before I saw him. The air shifted. My spine straightened. His hand touched the small of my back. Not soft. Not violent. Firm. Claiming.

“She’s here to observe,” Wolfe said.

But his voice held something darker. Like he already knew I’d be absorbed instead. Like he’d invited me here not to watch—but to be watched.

The main gallerywas arranged like a chessboard. Tables in a sharp U-shape. A stage lit center-front. But this wasn’t for art. Not paintings. Not sculpture. Not jewelry.

This was an auction of names. Of influence. Of empire. Board seats. Foreign permits. Port clearances. Lawlor didn’t deal in diamonds tonight. They dealt in power.

I tried to follow Wolfe to his table. He stopped me with a touch to my wrist. Directed me two chairs down. He sat at the center of the table, flanked by Royal and Barron.

I was seated between Loyal and a man I didn’t recognize. Tall. Grey hair. French cufflinks and a practiced smile.

He said nothing at first. Just passed me a flute of champagne with a nod that lingered too long. When he reached for the salt, his knuckles brushed my wrist. Deliberate.

I stiffened. Loyal didn’t say a word. But he shifted his chair back.Just slightly. Pushed mine away from the man with one slow slide of his foot. The message was clear.

Wolfe watched the entire thing. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t stop it. Because thiswasthe test.

The room buzzed with the first round of bidding. I barely understood the numbers. Eight figures. Silent nods. Paddles raised like declarations of war. Royal bid first. Barron lifted his glass but said nothing. And Wolfe? He watched me. Not the auctioneer. Not the screen.

Me.

Every time the man beside me leaned closer, Wolfe’s jaw twitched. Every time I shifted, pulled the slit of the dress lower, his gaze narrowed. I felt his fury before I saw it. It vibrated in the air like electricity.