Page 146 of His to Hunt

My name isn't actually Sophia Reeves, though I've been wearing that identity for six months now. The real me—Delilah Monroe—wouldn't last five minutes in a place like the Metropolitan Opera House. But Sophia? She fits right in with these people, speaks their language, knows which fork to use for the salad course.

Sophia is everything I've never been and everything I need to be to survive in this world.

"You look absolutely radiant tonight, darling," Marcus Pemberton murmurs beside me, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. His touch makes my skin crawl, but I lean into it anyway, painting a pleased smile across my lips.

"Thank you," I purr, letting my fingers trail along his arm. "I'm so excited to be here. I've never been to an auction like this before."

The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. This is actually my fourth charity auction this year, though never with stakes quite this high. Marcus represents my entry point into something much bigger than his moderately impressive trust fund—access to the Owner's Club.

Most people in New York have never heard of it. Those who have speak of it only in whispers, treating it like an urban legend. But I know better. I've seen the evidence, pieced together the connections, followed the money trails that all lead back to the same shadowy organization of powerful men.

It was actually Luna Laurent's story that first put me on the trail. Not the sanitized version that made it into the society pages—the real story, the one that emerged in fragments through leaked police reports and hospital records that my partner Iris managed to access. A young woman from a prominent family, kidnapped and held captive, rescued by her billionaire lover who killed her captor in what was ruled justifiable homicide.

The official story painted it as a tragic case of stalking gone wrong. But when you looked deeper, when you followed the connections between the victim, the perpetrator, and the man who saved her, patterns emerged. References to hunts, to collections, to an exclusive club that operated by rules most people couldn't imagine.

That's when I knew I'd found my target market.

The Owner's Club doesn't just represent money—it represents the kind of money that operates above laws, above consequences, above the normal rules that govern society. The kind of money worth taking risks for.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, hidden in the small clutch that matches my dress perfectly. I excuse myself from Marcus's tedious story about his polo ponies, claiming I need to powder my nose, and step away to check the message.

It's from Iris, as expected. A simple text that looks innocuous to anyone who might glimpse it over my shoulder:Dinner reservation confirmed for 8pm. Balance: $847K liquid, $2.3M tied up in investments. Clean credit.

I bite back a satisfied smile. Marcus's financial profile is even better than we'd hoped. More importantly, his accounts show the kind of regular large transfers that suggest involvement in something beyond legitimate business dealings. Exactly what I'd expect from someone with connections to the Owner's Club.

The best part? Tonight's little performance with the Thomas Cole painting will cost him absolutely nothing in the long run. Iris arranged for one of her contacts at the auction house to include it in tonight's lots—a piece we already own, purchased months ago for a fraction of what Marcus will pay tonight. After the auction, it will be "donated" back to the charity, minus our generous commission, and eventually find its way back to us through a labyrinthine series of shell companies and art dealers.

It's almost too easy. These people have so much money they've lost track of what things are actually worth. A fifteen-thousand-dollar impulse purchase barely registers on their radar.

I'm sliding my phone back into my clutch when I feel it—the weight of someone's gaze, deliberate and unwavering. My instincts, honed by years of reading people and situations, immediately go on high alert.

I turn slowly, scanning the crowd with the casual indifference of someone simply people-watching. That's when I see him.

Graham Ellsworth stands near the front of the auction hall, positioned at a table with three other people who radiate the kind of quiet power that money can't buy. Even from this distance, he's striking—tall and lean with dark blond hair that's just messy enough to suggest he doesn't try too hard, wearing a tuxedo that's been tailored to perfection. But it's not his appearance that catches my attention.

It's the way he's looking at me.

Not with the hungry appreciation I'm used to from men like Marcus, or the calculating assessment of a potential business partner. Graham Ellsworth is studying me with the focused intensity of someone who's just spotted something interesting—and potentially dangerous.

Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and he smiles. Not the polite social smile these events demand, but something sharper, more knowing. Like he's just figured out the punchline to a joke I didn't realize I was telling.

My pulse quickens, though I'm careful not to let it show on my face. Graham Ellsworth is exactly the kind of man I've been hoping to attract—wealthy beyond measure, powerful beyond counting, and smart enough to be genuinely challenging. Everything about him screams Owner's Club material.

But there's something in his expression that makes me uneasy. A recognition that goes beyond simple attraction or interest. Almost like he knows exactly what game I'm playing.

Which is impossible. My Sophia Reeves identity is flawless—Iris made sure of that. Background, credit history, social media presence going back years. There's no way he could know anything about the real me.

Unless he's better at reading people than I gave him credit for.

I hold his gaze for exactly three seconds—long enough to acknowledge the connection, not long enough to seem desperate—then turn back to Marcus with a bright smile.

"Sorry about that," I say, slipping my arm through his. "I thought I saw someone I knew, but I was mistaken."

"No harm done, darling." Marcus's attention is already shifting back to the auction stage, where they're preparing to present the next lot. "Ah, here we go. Let's see if we can find you something special tonight."

The irony isn't lost on me. He has no idea he's about to buy me my own painting.

The auctioneer calls for attention, and I let myself get swept up in the performance I've rehearsed a dozen times. The excited art lover, new to this world, relying on her more experienced companion to guide her through the intricacies of high-stakes bidding.

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