Chapter 3 #2
Her attention snaps back to me, wariness creeping into her expression. "What kind of expectations?"
"You'll stay close to me."
"At all times?" she asks, eyebrows raised. "What about when I'm at the display table?"
"When necessary, you can attend to your work. Otherwise, you're with me." I make it a statement, not a request. "Some of my associates can be…persistent when they see something they want."
"And you think they'll want…me?" Disbelief colors her tone.
I almost laugh. Her inability to recognize her own appeal is as frustrating as it is endearing.
"Sophie," I say, her name like dark honey on my tongue, "every man in that room will want you the moment you walk through the door. Make no mistake about that."
The blush returns, spreading down her neck toward the neckline of her dress. I find myself wondering how far it goes.
"You're exaggerating," she murmurs.
"I never exaggerate. Especially about threats to what's mine."
Her eyes widen. "I'm not yours, Christian."
"Aren't you?" I counter, letting my gaze drop deliberately to her lips. "You're wearing a dress I bought. You're in my car. You're attending my event. For tonight, at least, you are very much mine."
I watch the conflict play across her face—indignation warring with something darker, something she's not ready to acknowledge. Her breath comes quicker, her pupils dilating slightly.
"That's very…possessive of you," she finally says, her voice carefully measured.
"I'm a possessive man." I make no apology for it. "I protect what's mine, Sophie. Remember that when you're tempted to wander off tonight."
"Or what?" A hint of defiance creeps into her voice. "You'll throw me over your shoulder and carry me out?"
The image sends a jolt of heat through me. "If necessary."
She stares at me, clearly trying to determine if I'm serious. I hold her gaze, letting her see that I am entirely serious.
"You can't just…control people like that," she says, but the protest sounds weak even to my ears.
"I control everything in my world," I tell her simply. "It's how I've survived. It's how I've succeeded where others have failed."
Something in my tone must reveal more than intended, because her expression shifts, curiosity replacing defiance.
"What happened to you?" she asks softly, the unexpected personal question catching me off guard.
I feel my jaw tighten reflexively. No one asks me about my past. No one dares. Yet here is this small-town shopkeeper, looking at me with genuine concern rather than the fear or deference I'm accustomed to.
"Nothing relevant to tonight," I answer, my tone making it clear the subject is closed.
She doesn't push, but I can see the question lingering in her eyes. It unsettles me. I'm not accustomed to being read so easily.
The Bentley slows as we approach the Grand Summit Hotel, its facade lit with thousands of white lights for the holiday season. The circular drive is already crowded with luxury vehicles disgorging the city's elite in their finest attire.
"We're here," I say, unnecessarily.
Sophie's nervousness returns, visible in the tightening of her shoulders beneath the cashmere coat. I place my hand over hers where it rests on the seat between us. She startles at the contact, her eyes flying to mine.
"Stay close to me," I say again, my thumb brushing once across her knuckles. "I won't let anything happen to you."
The car stops. Outside, a valet opens the door, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of distant orchestra music.
"Ready?" I ask, though it's not really a question.
Sophie takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and nods once.
"As I'll ever be."
As I help her from the car, I'm already calculating how many people I'll need to warn off by the end of the night. How many men will look at her the way I do.
And how completely I'll make it clear that Sophie Winters is spoken for.
The Grand Summit Hotel rises before us like a glittering ice palace, its facade a cascade of white lights and gleaming marble.
Valets in crimson uniforms rush to open doors for guests emerging from vehicles that cost more than most people's homes.
I feel Sophie tense beside me as the door opens, the full spectacle of my world hitting her all at once—the opulence, the excess, the sheer concentrated power of wealth.
This is where I belong. And tonight, where she belongs too.
I step out first, buttoning my jacket with practiced ease, then extend my hand to help her emerge.
The moment she rises from the car, something shifts in my chest—a possessive pride I haven't felt before.
The emerald of her dress catches the golden light spilling from the hotel entrance, making her glow against the darkness.
She looks ethereal, otherworldly—and mine.
She places her hand in mine, her fingers cool and slightly trembling. I tighten my grip, steadying her as she finds her footing on the plush red carpet leading to the entrance. The snow has stopped, but the air remains crisp, turning her breath to delicate clouds that dissipate between us.
"All these people," she murmurs, taking in the crowd of Evergreen's and the surrounding cities' elite. Women dripping in diamonds, men in custom tuxedos, all of them exuding the casual arrogance of those who never check price tags.
"None of them matter," I tell her, placing my hand at the small of her back to guide her forward. "They're just background."
I feel her spine straighten beneath my palm, her chin lifting slightly. Good. I want her confident. I want everyone to see what I see—not just beauty, but strength. The kind of woman worthy of standing beside Christian Hawthorne.
We haven't taken five steps before I notice the attention she's drawing.
Men turn, conversations pausing mid-sentence as their gazes follow our progress.
Their expressions are identical—appreciation, hunger, calculation.
The women's reactions are equally predictable—assessment, followed by either dismissal or threat evaluation.
The attention fuels something primal in me. Let them look. Let them want. They can't have her.
"Mr. Hawthorne," greets the hotel manager, appearing at my side as if conjured. "Always a pleasure to host your event. And your guest is...?"
"Sophie Winters," I supply, without giving her a chance to speak for herself. "Owner of Winter Wishes."
The manager's eyes widen fractionally—he clearly wasn't expecting me to arrive with a local shopkeeper—but his professional mask slides back into place quickly. "Ah, yes. The ornament display is arranged as requested. If you'll follow me..."
We proceed through the hotel's grand foyer, a cathedral of marble and crystal.
I keep Sophie close, my hand never leaving her back.
I feel each breath she takes, each moment of tension as we pass clusters of people who pause their conversations to stare.
Some nod respectfully to me. I acknowledge only those who matter.
"Christian," calls a voice I recognize. James Whitaker, CEO of a technology firm I've been considering acquiring. "Didn't expect to see you with a date tonight."
I feel Sophie stiffen beside me.
"James," I acknowledge coolly. "This is Sophie Winters. She's an artist whose work is featured tonight."
James's eyes sweep over Sophie, lingering a beat too long on the curve of her neck. "Lucky us," he says, extending his hand to her. "I look forward to seeing your…creations."
She shakes his hand briefly. "Thank you. I hope they meet your expectations."
"I'm sure anything associated with Christian exceeds expectations," James replies, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"We should continue," I interject, my tone making it clear the conversation is over. "The display awaits our approval."
I guide Sophie away, not bothering with further pleasantries.
"Is he important?" she asks quietly.
"Not as important as he thinks," I reply. "And not worth your concern."
We reach the entrance to the main ballroom where a small but elegant display has been set up.
Sophie's ornaments—crystal snowflakes, hand-painted glass globes, delicate wooden sculptures—are arranged on black velvet under perfectly positioned spotlights.
Each piece catches the light in ways that showcase the craftsmanship, the attention to detail.
Sophie's breath catches. "They look…different here."
"They look valuable," I correct her. "Which they are."
Her eyes find mine, genuine surprise in them. "You think so?"
"I don't deal in things without value, Sophie." I let my gaze travel deliberately from her eyes to her lips. "In any context."
The blush that colors her cheeks is more satisfying than closing a multimillion-dollar deal.
A small group has already gathered around the display, examining the pieces with interest. I observe Sophie as she steps forward to answer their questions.
She's nervous at first—her hands fidgeting with her clutch, her smile a bit too eager—but within minutes, she finds her rhythm.
Her passion for her craft shines through, transforming her from uncertain to captivating.
I stand back, watching as she draws people in, her hands gesturing gracefully as she explains her techniques.
In this moment, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and power, she doesn't fade into the background as I half-expected.
Instead, she glows brighter, a genuine spark among carefully cultivated facades.
The sight stirs something unexpected in me. Not just desire—though that burns steady and hot beneath my skin—but something dangerously close to admiration.
"Christian Hawthorne with a date. The world must be ending."
I turn to find Elizabeth Chen beside me, elegant as always in midnight blue. As the head of the largest investment firm on the East Coast, she's one of the few people I genuinely respect.
"Not a date," I correct automatically. "A featured artist."
Elizabeth's knowing smile tells me she doesn't believe me for a second. "The way you're looking at her suggests otherwise. I haven't seen that expression on your face since…well, ever."
I don't dignify this with a response.
"She's lovely," Elizabeth continues. "And talented, judging by the display. Not your usual type."
"I don't have a type."
"Precisely why this is interesting." She sips her champagne. "The board must be thrilled. Humanizes you."
My jaw tightens. "I don't need humanizing."
"Everyone needs humanizing, Christian. Even you." She glances toward Sophie, who's laughing at something a guest has said. "Especially when they look at someone the way you're looking at her right now."
Before I can respond, the orchestra inside the ballroom begins to play louder, signaling the official start of the evening. Guests begin to move from the foyer into the main event.
I return to Sophie's side, placing my hand possessively at her waist. She turns, looking up at me with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
"People seem to like them," she says, gesturing to her ornaments. "A woman just ordered fifty custom pieces for corporate gifts."
"Of course they do." I lower my head slightly, speaking close to her ear. "They recognize quality when they see it."
Her skin pebbles at my proximity, a reaction she can't hide. Can't deny.
"Shall we?" I ask, nodding toward the ballroom doors where hundreds of guests await, where the real test of the evening begins.
She takes a deep breath and nods. "Lead the way."
As we enter the ballroom, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm, I feel a surge of something unfamiliar—pride mixed with an almost overwhelming possessiveness.
Tonight, in this room filled with the powerful and privileged, Sophie Winters is mine.
Every glance, every whisper, every speculation confirms it.
And by the time the night is over, she'll know it too.