Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
CHRISTIAN
The orchestra transitions to something slower, more intimate.
Perfect timing. I lead Sophie onto the dance floor, my hand firm at the small of her back.
The warmth of her skin radiates through the velvet dress, a constant reminder of what's beneath—what I haven't yet claimed but intend to.
Every man who's looked at her tonight, every predatory glance, every disrespectful comment has only strengthened my resolve.
By the end of this dance, no one in this room will have any doubt about who Sophie Winters belongs to.
Daniel's blatant challenge still burns in my mind.
The man has always pushed boundaries, but tonight he crossed a line he can't uncross.
Not just a professional line, but something deeper, more primal.
He touched what's mine. He looked at Sophie with hunger so obvious it might as well have been a brand on his forehead.
And he did it deliberately, knowing I was watching.
I pull Sophie closer as we reach the center of the floor, positioning us where we'll be most visible.
Most of these corporate events blur together in my memory, tedious obligations I endure rather than enjoy.
Not tonight. Tonight, I want to be seen.
I want every eye in the room on us—on her, on me, on the unmistakable connection between us.
"Christian?" Sophie's voice is soft, uncertain. She can sense the change in me, the predator lurking beneath my usual control.
"Just follow my lead," I tell her, placing her left hand on my shoulder, capturing her right one in mine.
I draw her against me, closer than propriety dictates, close enough that I can feel every curve of her body, every breath she takes. Her eyes widen slightly at the intimacy of the position, but she doesn't pull away. Good. She's learning.
We begin to move. The dance is a simple waltz, but I infuse it with something more possessive than the traditional steps would suggest. My hand spreads wider across her back, fingers grazing the bare skin exposed by the dress's low cut.
She shivers beneath my touch—not from cold, but from something else.
Something she's not ready to name but can't deny.
"Everyone's watching," she whispers, a blush coloring her cheeks.
"Let them," I reply, my voice low enough for only her to hear. "Let them see exactly who you're with tonight."
Her pupils dilate, the deep blue of her irises nearly swallowed by black.
I've spent years reading people, calculating their desires, their weaknesses.
Sophie might claim independence with her words, but her body betrays her at every turn.
The quickened pulse at her throat, the parting of her lips, the way she unconsciously leans into my touch—her body knows what she wants before her mind is ready to admit it.
"You're very good at this," she says, nodding slightly toward our dancing.
"I'm very good at everything I do," I tell her, not boasting, simply stating fact. "Especially the things that matter to me."
Her breath catches. "And this matters?"
"You matter." The words come out more intensely than I intended, revealing more than I typically allow.
We turn, and I catch sight of Daniel watching from the edge of the floor, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes burning with resentment.
James stands near the bar, his gaze following Sophie's every move.
Around the room, other men watch with varying degrees of subtlety, some with their own dates or wives standing oblivious beside them.
Their attention fuels something dark and possessive inside me.
I pull Sophie even closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. Our bodies press together from chest to knee. She makes a small sound of surprise but adapts quickly, her hand tightening on my shoulder.
"Christian," she breathes, half warning, half question.
"Tell me you want me to stop," I challenge, my lips close to her ear. "Tell me you don't feel it too."
She doesn't reply, which is answer enough. Instead, she allows her body to melt against mine, surrendering to the rhythm and the heat building between us.
The room falls away. The music continues, but I barely hear it.
All my senses narrow to the woman in my arms—the scent of her perfume, the softness of her skin beneath my palm, the slight tremble in her fingers where they rest in mine.
I've acquired companies worth billions without feeling a fraction of the satisfaction I feel right now, holding Sophie where she belongs.
"I don't understand this," she admits quietly. "Any of it. Why me?"
Why her? As if the answer isn't blindingly obvious to everyone in this room. As if she doesn't recognize her own power, her own magnetism. Her lack of artifice in a world built on facades. Her genuineness in a sea of calculated performances.
"Because you're real," I tell her, the closest I can come to articulating what draws me to her. "In a world of counterfeits, you're authentic."
The music swells around us. I guide her into a turn that puts my back to most of the room, sheltering her from the hungry gazes still following our every move. My hand slides slightly lower on her back, proprietary, Bening territory.
"I thought this was just business," she says, echoing our conversation from days ago. "A professional courtesy."
"Is that what you want it to be?" I counter, holding her gaze.
Her silence speaks volumes.
"I want—" she starts, then stops herself. "I don't know what I want."
"I do." I tighten my grip fractionally. "I know exactly what I want, Sophie."
The dance ends, but I don't release her. Not yet. Let them wait, these people who think they have some claim on my time, my attention. Let them see that I'm not finished with Sophie Winters. That I've only just begun.
"What happens after tonight?" she asks, the question barely audible.
"That depends on you," I tell her, though it's only partly true. I've already decided that Sophie isn't walking out of my life when this gala ends. The only variable is how willingly she'll stay.
"And if I say this was just one night?" She's testing me, testing boundaries.
I allow myself a small smile. "Then you'd be lying. To me, and to yourself."
I release her finally, but keep her hand firmly in mine as I lead her from the dance floor. Every step we take together is another small victory, another public declaration. Mine. Mine. Mine.
The night is far from over. And I've only just begun to stake my claim.
I guide Sophie from the dance floor, my hand still claiming hers.
I don't release her, don't give her the option to drift away.
Not now. Not after making it clear to everyone watching exactly what she means to me.
The way she moved against me during our dance, the flush still coloring her cheeks, the slight tremble in her fingers—her body betrays every truth her words might try to deny.
She feels this too, this pull between us, this inevitable gravity.
The difference is, I've already accepted it. She's still fighting.
The message I've sent with that dance is clear to anyone watching—and everyone was watching.
In my world, gestures often speak louder than words.
Business rivals, board members, social climbers—they all understand the language of power and possession.
By holding Sophie so close, by touching her with such obvious intimacy in such a public setting, I've made a statement more binding than any contract.
Sophie Winters is mine.
She follows half a step behind me as we approach a group of my most important investors—old money families who've backed Hawthorne Enterprises since its inception.
I slow my pace, allowing her to draw even with me.
Then, deliberately, I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her slightly ahead of me as we reach the circle.
"Ah, Christian," greets Eleanor Blackwell, her diamonds glinting like ice under the chandeliers. "We were beginning to think you'd forgotten us."
"Never," I assure her, keeping Sophie close. "I wanted to introduce you to someone special. Sophie Winters, owner of Winter Wishes. Sophie, Eleanor Blackwell heads our largest investment group."
Eleanor's shrewd eyes assess Sophie from head to toe, missing nothing. "The ornament display is yours? Exquisite work."
"Thank you," Sophie replies, her voice steadier than I expected. "I'm honored to be included tonight."
"Christian doesn't extend invitations lightly," Eleanor says, glancing between us meaningfully. "Or personal introductions."
I step closer to Sophie, my chest nearly touching her back, creating a shield between her and the rest of the group. It's a protective stance, possessive, unmistakable to anyone familiar with body language. Eleanor notices immediately, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"Sophie's work deserves recognition," I say simply. "As does she."
The conversations flows around us—Benet trends, holiday plans, the usual social currency of these events.
Throughout, I maintain physical contact with Sophie—my hand at her waist, my fingers brushing hers when I hand her a fresh glass of champagne, my body positioned to include her in our circle while simultaneously Bening her as under my protection.
I notice how she leans into my touch, perhaps unconsciously.
How she orients herself toward me even when speaking to others.
How her eyes seek mine after she answers a question, as if looking for approval.
These small surrenders feed something primal in me, something that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with claiming what's mine.
"Your ornaments would make perfect gifts for our clients," says William Blackwell, Eleanor's husband. "Perhaps we could discuss a bulk order? Over dinner, perhaps? Just the two of us?"