Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
SOPHIE
The ballroom of the Grand Summit Hotel swallows me whole the moment we step through its gilded doors.
I've seen fancy parties in movies, but nothing prepared me for this—hundreds of people draped in designer clothing and jewelry that probably costs more than my shop makes in a year, crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen waterfalls, an actual orchestra playing in the corner.
It's beautiful, intimidating, and so far from my world of handmade ornaments and small-town charm that I might as well have landed on Mars.
Christian's hand rests at the small of my back, warm and solid, the only familiar sensation in this sea of opulence. I'm grateful for it, even as I resent needing his steadying presence. The emerald dress suddenly feels like a costume—something I'm wearing to play a part I haven't rehearsed.
"Deep breath," Christian murmurs close to my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. "You look like you're facing a firing squad."
I force my lungs to work properly. "They're all staring."
"Of course they are. You're with me." His arrogance should irritate me, but there's something steadying about his absolute certainty. "And you're the most beautiful woman in the room."
Before I can process that, he's guiding me deeper into the crowd, his fingers never leaving contact with my back, hip, or hand. Like he's afraid I might float away if he lets go. Or run. Running seems like a good option right about now.
"Christian Hawthorne." A silver-haired man in a tuxedo that probably costs more than my car steps into our path, hand outstretched. "I was beginning to think you'd skip your own party."
Christian shakes the man's hand with his free one, the other still firmly clasping mine. "Harold. You're looking well."
Harold's eyes slide to me, curiosity barely masked beneath practiced politeness. "And who is this lovely creature?"
I bristle internally at being called a "creature," but paste on my best customer-service smile.
"Sophie Winters," Christian answers before I can speak. "She owns Winter Wishes, the artisan shop providing our featured display tonight."
"Ah, the ornaments." Harold nods, though I can tell he hasn't actually seen them. "Charming. Very…seasonal."
The way he says "charming" makes it sound like he's describing a child's crayon drawing. I feel my smile stiffening.
"They're exquisite," Christian corrects, his tone dropping several degrees. "Hand-crafted pieces that put mass-produced luxury items to shame. You should examine them before forming an opinion, Harold."
Harold blinks, clearly unused to being chastised by Christian—or anyone, I suspect.
"Of course, of course," he backpedals, then turns to me. "I look forward to seeing your work, Miss Winters."
"Thank you," I manage, hating how small my voice sounds.
As Harold retreats, Christian squeezes my hand. "Ignore him. Old money, empty head."
I should be offended by his high-handedness, answering for me, defending me without letting me speak for myself. Instead, I feel a traitorous warmth spreading through my chest. No one has ever spoken up for me or my work like that before.
We move through the crowd, stopping every few feet for Christian to exchange terse greetings with people whose names blur together in my head.
Each time, the same pattern repeats: surprise when they see me, quick assessment, then polite words that either dismiss or patronize.
And each time, Christian's grip on me tightens a fraction, his responses growing colder if anyone dares suggest my presence or work is anything less than extraordinary.
I'm introduced to so many faces that they start to blend together—CEOs, hedge fund managers, real estate moguls, all of them looking at me with the same question in their eyes: What is she doing with Christian Hawthorne? I'm wondering the same thing.
A server glides past with a tray of champagne. Christian snags two flutes, handing one to me. I take a sip, grateful for something to do with my free hand, and nearly choke on the taste. It's nothing like the $12 sparkling wine I split with Lily on my birthday.
"Careful," Christian says, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's stronger than it tastes."
"Everything here is," I murmur, more to myself than him.
His eyes darken slightly. "Including me."
The orchestra transitions to a new piece, something slow and elegant. Around us, couples begin to drift toward the center of the room. Christian sets his untouched champagne on a passing server's tray.
"You haven't released my hand once since we arrived," I observe, finding courage in the champagne's gentle buzz.
"Is that a complaint?" he asks, his eyes never leaving mine.
"An observation." I take another sip. "People will talk."
"Let them." He takes my champagne and places it beside his, then turns back to me. "They're already talking. Might as well give them something worth discussing."
The realization hits me: he wants them to talk. He wants everyone in this room to see me on his arm, to wonder, to speculate. I'm not just here to showcase my ornaments. I'm here to be showcased.
"Why me?" The question slips out before I can stop it, the same one I asked during our charity dance. "Why did you bring me here tonight? Really?"
For a moment, I think he might actually give me a straight answer. Something flickers in those storm-gray eyes—something almost like vulnerability.
Then a woman's voice cuts through our bubble. "Christian, darling. You've been holding out on us."
The moment shatters. Christian's expression locks down again, all cold control as he turns to face a statuesque blonde in a red dress that looks painted on her perfect body.
"Vanessa," he acknowledges, his tone neutral but his hand tightening around mine to the point of discomfort.
"You know I hate having to hear gossip from others." Her smile is dazzling but doesn't reach her eyes, which assess me from head to toe in one dismissive sweep. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your…friend?"
The way she hesitates before "friend" makes it clear she's using the kindest possible word for what she assumes I am.
"Sophie Winters, Vanessa Lockwood," Christian says tersely. "Vanessa is a board member at Hawthorne Enterprises."
I extend my free hand, determined not to show how intimidated I feel. "Nice to meet you."
Vanessa's hand is cool and her grip deliberately limp. "Charmed. Christian tells me you make…what was it? Christmas trinkets?"
"Handcrafted ornaments and gifts," I correct, finding my voice. "My work is on display near the entrance."
"How quaint." Her gaze flicks between Christian and me, calculation evident. "And how unlike you, Christian, to take such an interest in…local arts and crafts."
Christian's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking visibly. "I recognize quality, Vanessa. In all its forms."
"Clearly." Her smile turns predatory as she focuses on me again. "Well, Sophie, you must tell me how you managed what no woman in three counties has accomplished—getting Christian Hawthorne to bring you to an event. We're all dying to know your secret."
My cheeks burn, but before I can respond, Christian cuts in.
"Our dance is starting," he says, though the orchestra is playing the same piece as before. He turns to me, dismissing Vanessa completely. "Shall we?"
He doesn't wait for my answer, simply leads me away, his hand now at my waist, guiding me toward the dance floor. I can feel Vanessa's eyes burning into my back.
"Ex-girlfriend?" I ask when we're out of earshot.
"No." His answer is clipped.
"She seems to think she should be."
His hand tightens on my waist. "Vanessa's ambitions are not my concern."
We reach the edge of the dance floor, and Christian turns me to face him. Both his hands move to my waist, firm and possessive. I place mine hesitantly on his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fine fabric of his tuxedo.
"Everyone is watching," I whisper, suddenly aware of the eyes following us.
Christian's gaze never wavers from my face, intensity burning in those gray depths. "Let them watch."
As he pulls me closer, I realize I'm still clutching my little shop's business card in my hand, the one I'd been ready to give Vanessa. It seems so small, so insignificant against the backdrop of all this wealth and power.
Just like me.
Christian guides me onto the dance floor with the confidence of a man who has never second-guessed a step in his life.
His hand splays possessively against my lower back, warm through the velvet of my dress.
The orchestra plays something classical and sweeping that I should probably recognize but don't. Around us, couples move with practiced elegance, their jewels catching the light from the chandeliers overhead.
I focus on not tripping over my own feet, on remembering to breathe, on ignoring the fact that I'm actually dancing with Christian Hawthorne at his company's gala while what feels like half the city's elite watches.
"Relax," Christian murmurs, pulling me closer than is strictly necessary for this dance. "I won't let you fall."
His words have double meanings I'm not ready to examine.
I let him lead, our bodies moving in sync as if we've done this a hundred times before.
The charity auction dance was nothing like this—that was brief, public, perfunctory.
This feels intimate, deliberate, like we're performing a scene for an audience that can't look away.
"There," Christian says, his mouth close to my ear, "you're getting it."