Page 92 of His to Possess
The opulent space stretched before me, a sea of Chicago's artistic elite mingling and posturing. Their chatter grated on my nerves, a cacophony of pretension and self-importance. I would rather be anywhere else, buried in work or locked away in my penthouse. But Luka's invitation was impossible to ignore, and my other friends, twisted souls that they were, insisted I make an appearance.
I snagged a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, more out of habit than desire. The bubbles danced mockingly in the crystal, a frivolity I had no appetite for. My gaze swept the room, taking in Luka's latest creations. Large canvases dominatedeach alcove, their bold strokes and provocative themes a stark contrast to the polished veneer of the attendees.
Work was my sole focus these past months, a relentless grind that left little room for introspection or other distractions. It was better this way, I told myself. Safer. The endless parade of meetings, acquisitions, and power plays kept the ghosts at bay, at least most of the time.
My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a face that didn't make my skin crawl with irritation. I spotted Tristan. His presence was a welcome sight, a reminder that not everyone here was a vapid social climber.
I made my way towards him, sidestepping conversations and dodging outstretched hands. Tristan stood apart from the masses, his keen eyes observing the scene with the same clinical detachment I appreciated. As I approached, the recognition in his gaze was followed by something else—concern, perhaps? It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual mask of professional courtesy.
I forced a semblance of a smile on my face. "Tristan. I see you've been roped into this circus as well."
He turned to me, his stare sharp and assessing. "Rex. I was beginning to wonder if you'd make an appearance."
"Believe me, I considered staying away," I said, taking a sip of champagne.
Tristan's lips quirked. "You might not want to miss this one. The atmosphere seems unusually charged tonight."
I arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And why's that?"
"Luka hinted at some sort of surprise. He's got everyone on edge, wondering what he's cooked up this time."
I shrugged, uninterested. "Luka's full of surprises. It's probably just another shock-value piece to get people talking. He's good at that."
Before Tristan could respond, I spotted three familiar figures cutting through the masses. Colton, Nolan, and Remy approached, dressed impeccably in tailored suits. Their sudden appearance caught me off guard.
"Well, well," Colton drawled, grinning. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence."
I eyed them suspiciously. "I didn't expect to see you all here. Since when do you care about Luka's little soirées?"
Nolan clapped me on the shoulder. "We wouldn't miss this for the world, my friend."
"Greyson and Declan send their regrets," Remy added. "Urgent business, apparently. But they'll be at our next poker night."
My suspicion deepened. "What's going on? What are you all playing at?"
Colton held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, we're just as in the dark as you are. Luka said something about making a bang tonight, but that's all we know."
I narrowed my eyes, scanning their faces for any hint of deception. "And you expect me to believe that?"
Remy shrugged. "Believe what you want, Rex. But we're not lying."
"Come on," Nolan interjected, trying to lighten the mood. "Let's grab a drink and enjoy the show. Whatever Luka's planning, it's bound to be interesting."
I remained unconvinced, but allowed myself to be pulled along with the group.
I caught a glimpse of August from the corner of my eye, engaged in conversation with a couple I didn't recognize. Our gazes locked for a brief instant, and he gave me a small nod. It was a simple gesture, but it carried the weight of our complicated history.
My mind drifted back to the aftermath of Paris, after I had ensured Laurel's safety. I had made the difficult decision to send Lola's medical evaluation to August. It was a peace offering of sorts, an attempt to clear the air between us after years of misunderstanding and animosity.
A few months ago, we finally had a calm, rational conversation over the phone. It was the first time in years we had spoken without the undercurrent of hostility.
We talked for nearly an hour that day. About Lola, about the misunderstandings that had driven us apart, about the pain we had both carried for so long. It wasn't easy, rehashing old wounds, but it felt necessary. Cathartic, even.
Now, as I watched August across the crowded ballroom, I felt a glimmer of something I hadn't associated with him in years: hope. It was a fragile thing, this tentative truce between us. I wasn't naïve enough to think we would ever recapture the easy friendship of before. Too much had happened, too many harsh words exchanged, and lines crossed. But perhaps we could forge something new, something built on mutual understanding and respect.
I felt a tightening in my chest as I remembered August's call a few weeks ago. His voice was carefully neutral when he told me Laurel was back in Chicago. Working on his project. Back at the Art Institute.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
