Chapter 6 #2
Clara adapts to the gala with surprising ease, her initial nervousness giving way to genuine curiosity about the event and its purpose.
I guide her through the crowd with a hand at the small of her back, introducing her to hospital board members and key donors.
Her warmth and authenticity stand out in this room of practiced smiles and calculated conversations.
When she speaks about her passion for baking, her entire face lights up in a way that draws people in—something I've observed in her bakery but is even more striking in this setting.
I'm about to introduce her to the hospital's chief of pediatric oncology when I spot Sophia Winters approaching, her predatory smile familiar from a brief but intense affair last year.
"Alex, darling," Sophia purrs, air-kissing near my cheek. "It's been ages."
Four months, to be exact—the last charity function where she attempted to reignite what had been extinguished long before.
Sophia is a classic beauty with the calculating mind of a chess grandmaster.
Every move serves a purpose. Tonight, she wears a black gown cut low enough to border on inappropriate, strategically revealing the diamond necklace I foolishly gave her during our two-month entanglement.
"Sophia," I acknowledge, keeping my tone pleasant but distant. "You remember Dr. Reynolds?"
The doctor nods politely, then excuses himself to speak with another guest, leaving us in the precise configuration Sophia wanted—her, me, and my date, ripe for assessment.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your…friend?" She examines Clara with the practiced eye of a jeweler appraising a questionable stone.
"Clara Benson," I say, moving slightly closer to Clara. "Clara owns Sweet Haven Bakery. Sophia Winters runs the Winters Gallery downtown."
Clara offers her hand with genuine politeness. "Lovely to meet you."
Sophia takes it briefly, her smile never reaching her eyes. "Sweet Haven? I don't believe I'm familiar with it."
"It's not in your neighborhood," I say before Clara can respond. "But it will be catering future foundation events. Clara's work is exceptional."
"How…quaint," Sophia says, the slight pause an expertly placed barb. "I'm sure it's charming."
Clara's spine stiffens beside me, but her expression remains pleasant. "We aim for exceptional rather than charming, but I appreciate the sentiment."
I suppress a smile at her perfectly delivered response. Sophia's eyes narrow slightly, reassessing.
"Alex, I've been meaning to call you about the charity auction for the gallery next month," Sophia says, shifting her attention fully to me, effectively dismissing Clara. "Perhaps we could discuss it…privately? I'm sure your friend wouldn't mind getting herself a drink while we catch up."
Her implication hangs in the air between us. Once, I might have taken the opportunity for a strategic reconnection. Sophia's family connections have been useful in the past. But the thought of leaving Clara's side, even briefly, feels unthinkable.
"Clara is my date for the evening, Sophia," I say, my tone cooling considerably. "Any business matters can be directed through my office. Jennifer handles my schedule."
Sophia's perfect features harden momentarily before she forces a laugh. "Always so serious, Alex. It's what I miss most about you." She touches my arm, her fingers lingering deliberately. "Think about the auction. For old times' sake."
She glides away, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume and unfinished business in her wake.
"Ex-girlfriend?" Clara asks, her voice carefully neutral.
"Briefly," I confirm. "Nothing significant."
"She seemed to think otherwise."
"Sophia sees relationships as strategic alliances. She's reevaluating her portfolio."
Clara's lips twitch. "And am I a new acquisition in your portfolio, Mr. Devereux?"
"No," I say simply. "You're something else entirely."
Before she can ask what I mean, the hospital director approaches to discuss the dessert catering opportunity.
Clara engages immediately, her knowledge of large-scale production and food safety protocols clearly impressing him.
I watch with undisguised pride as she handles his questions with professional confidence, occasionally glancing at me to gauge my reaction.
I nod encouragingly, letting her take the lead.
We make our way toward the bar after finalizing preliminary details about the catering contract. I notice with some amusement that Clara has collected several business cards already, tucking them carefully into her small clutch.
"Champagne?" I ask as we reach the bar.
"Please," she says, her eyes scanning the room with more confidence now. "This is actually less terrifying than I expected."
"You're a natural," I tell her, signaling the bartender. "People respond to authenticity. It's rare in these circles."
As the bartender pours our champagne, I feel a hand slide across my lower back—too familiar, too possessive.
"There you are." Victoria Chen appears at my side, her lithe body in a silver gown that looks painted on. Unlike Sophia, Victoria and I parted on relatively amicable terms after a brief, primarily physical relationship earlier this year. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
Her hand remains on my back, a clear signal to Clara and anyone watching. I step smoothly away, breaking the contact.
"Victoria, this is Clara Benson. Clara, Victoria Chen, editor at Style Magazine."
Victoria assesses Clara with the brutal efficiency of someone who judges appearances professionally. "Interesting choice," she says, the words directed at me rather than Clara. "Going for the wholesome look this season? Or is this a business connection?"
Clara's cheeks flush slightly, but her gaze remains steady. I feel a surge of anger at Victoria's deliberate attempt to diminish her.
"Clara is my date," I say, my tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "And the foundation's new dessert caterer, which makes her both a personal and professional priority tonight."
Victoria raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "How efficient of you. Two birds, one stone."
"I'd appreciate if you didn't refer to me as a 'bird,'" Clara interjects, her voice firm but not confrontational. "Or as a 'choice,' for that matter. I have a name."
Victoria looks momentarily startled. Few people challenge her directly.
"My apologies," she says with professional smoothness, though her eyes have cooled considerably. "Alex, when you have a moment, I'd love to discuss the feature we talked about for the March issue."
"Email Jennifer," I say, repeating my standard deflection. "She'll set something up."
Victoria lingers, clearly expecting me to make an excuse to speak with her privately. When I simply hand Clara her champagne and turn slightly away, Victoria finally takes the hint.
"Enjoy your evening," she says tightly before disappearing into the crowd.
Clara takes a sip of champagne, watching Victoria's retreat. "You seem to have a type," she observes. "Tall, model-thin, slightly terrifying."
"Past mistakes," I say, surprising myself with the blunt admission. "Nothing worth discussing."
Clara studies me over the rim of her glass. "They're all watching you, you know. Not just those two. At least half a dozen women have been tracking your movements since we arrived."
I shrug, genuinely disinterested. "Let them watch."
"Doesn't it bother you? Being treated like some prize to be won back?"
"No," I say honestly. "What bothers me is them interrupting my evening with you."
Her expression softens, vulnerability flashing briefly in her eyes before she masks it with another sip of champagne.
A server passes with hors d'oeuvres, and Clara's attention shifts immediately, professional interest piqued. "The pastry on those is undercooked," she murmurs, almost to herself. "The butter wasn't cold enough when they laminated the dough."
I smile at her unconscious assessment. "You can't turn it off, can you? The baker's eye."
"Can you turn off evaluating business opportunities wherever you go?" she counters.
"Touché."
As we continue circulating, I find myself focused entirely on Clara's reactions—her genuine delight at the ice sculpture, her thoughtful questions about the hospital's programs, her subtle critiques of the food.
I'm vaguely aware of other women trying to catch my eye, of Sophia watching from across the room with poorly concealed irritation, of Victoria speaking intensely with several people while glancing our way.
None of it matters. For the first time at one of these events, I'm not thinking about business connections or strategic appearances or how soon I can reasonably leave.
I'm simply present, watching Clara Benson navigate a world so different from her own with grace and authenticity that puts everyone else to shame.
When Elizabeth Hargrove—a shipping heiress I briefly dated two years ago—approaches with obvious intent, I smoothly guide Clara in the opposite direction without breaking our conversation about French versus American butter.
Elizabeth's affronted expression as we pass is barely registered in my peripheral vision.
Clara is the only woman in the room I see clearly. The only one who matters.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels like finally finding north after years of walking in circles.