Page 48 of Take Me Under

My fingers brushed over the smooth, cool surface of the ruby.

“It’s on loan,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “From Madeleine, the fashion designer I introduced you to at the Gala.”

His brows lifted slightly, a hint of intrigue flashing in his eyes. “How do you know Madeleine?”

“She’s an old friend of my mother’s,” I explained, resting my elbows on the table and trying to read his expression. “She’s been very supportive of my family over the years.”

“Supportive,” he repeated. His gaze flicked back to the necklace. “It must be quite the friendship if she’s loaning out rubies and couture.”

There it was again, that quiet, unrelenting scrutiny that made me feel both exposed and alive all at once. He wasn’t just looking at me; he was dissecting me, peeling back layers with every word.

I took a sip of water, suddenly nervous, although I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was pride. I hated that I was in a position to beg. Or perhaps it was his eyes—his gaze so potent that I sometimes found it hard to form an intelligent thought.

“She supported my father’s work. When my mother mentioned I needed help funding a dig in Rome, Madeleine stepped in. She’s always been loyal to my family.”

He tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Loyalty like that doesn’t come cheap.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just a curious observation. Attending the Met Gala isn’t an affordable evening out, especially for someone short on cash as you claim to be.”

Heat rose to my cheeks, but I refused to look away from him.

“Madeleine took care of it,” I said, my voice steady. “She provided the dress, the necklace, and the ticket. She didn’t explain how, and I didn’t ask. I was just grateful for the opportunity.”

Anton’s gaze didn’t waver, his expression unreadable as he leaned forward. “Serena, do you know how much it costs to attend that event?”

I frowned, unsure if he was testing me or genuinely curious. “How much?”

“This year, tickets started at fifty thousand, capping at around seventy-five thousand.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes.”

My eyes widened as my stomach dropped. That was obscene—a number so far removed from my reality that it might as well have been spoken in another language.

“I had no idea,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “That’s before you factor in the clothing, jewelry, and other expenses. Being that she’s a designer, she may have purchased a table, which would have lowered the ticket cost, but the difference is marginal.”

I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing.

Madeleine had spent all that—just to showcase her work?

And I hadn’t even walked the red carpet. I ran out before the cameras could get a single picture. Although I hadn’t looked, there were undoubtably pictures from the Met Gala all over social media—and most likely, I wasn’t in a single one. If I was, it was by pure accident.

I felt so foolish—and guilty. If only I could go back in time, I’d show Madeliene the depth of my gratitude.

“I can’t believe she spent so much,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. “I was too caught up in my own insecurities. It wasn’t my world. I felt out of place. And then I got sick.”

His brows furrowed and, for a moment, his carefully controlled expression slipped to reveal a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Concern? Or was it curiosity?

“I don’t know why you felt insecure. You looked the part,” he said, his voice low and steady.

He said it like it was an undeniable truth, sending a thrill through me that I quickly tamped down.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said, forcing a smile.

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