Page 16 of His Ruthless Claim

But then I think about the other day… when Mrs. Romano waddled in, dripping in her usual excess of diamonds. She was mid-rant on her phone about some charity auction when she spotted Mr. Dangerous examining a row of evening gowns.

Her voice died mid-sentence. The phone slipped from her manicured fingers, clattering to the marble floor.

"Oh," she breathed, her usual haughty demeanor evaporating. "I didn't expect- I mean, I can come back later-"

He didn't even look at her, just continued his methodical assessment of the dresses. "That won't be necessary."

Mrs. Romano - who once demanded I close the store for her private shopping session - backed away like she's facing a cobra. Her shoulders hunched, making her designer blazer bunch awkwardly. "Of course, of course. I'll just..."

She practically sprinted out the door, leaving her phone behind.

And it wasn't an isolated incident. I've watched socialites who normally snap their fingers for service dive into racks to avoid his path. Even Victoria Chen, who once threatened to sue me over a shipping delay, goes pale and quiet when he's around.

But him? He barely seems to register their existence. Those ice-blue eyes slide past them like they're furniture, his perfect posture never wavering. While they scurry and simper, he maintains that unnaturally still presence, like a statue carved from expensive Italian marble.

It should repel me - this cold power that makes strong women crumble. Instead, I find myself watching him more closely, cataloging the minute shifts in his expression, the careful precision of his movements. There's something fascinating about the contrast between his beautiful exterior and whatever darkness lurks beneath.

"Okay, spill." Mikayla leans across the table. "You've been staring into space for ten minutes. What's going on in that head of yours?"

I trace the condensation on my glass, debating how much to share. "Remember that guy you all teased me about at The Vault two weeks ago? The one in the custom Brioni suit?"

"The hot scary one?" Kendra perks up. "Girl, did something happen?"

"He's been coming to my store. Like clockwork, but never at the same time." I glance at Jazz, whose fingers have gone white around her water glass. "He buys expensive gifts for himself or 'business associates.' Usually women's items, always perfect taste."

"And you're into him." Mikayla grins.

"I'm... intrigued." I choose my words carefully. "He moves like he owns everything he sees. And the way other people react to him - there are some very powerful women practically running out my store to get away from him."

Jazz sets her glass down with a sharp click. "Some men aren't meant to be intrigued by, Skye. They're meant to be avoided."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means..." She presses her lips together. "Just trust me. That kind of man? He's dangerous. Not the fun kind of dangerous. The real kind."

"You know who he is." The pieces click into place - her tension, the warnings.

"I…have an idea." Her dark eyes meet mine, pleading. "Please. Find someone else to be intrigued by."

But her warning has the opposite effect. If Jazz, who deals with Chicago's underbelly every night at The Vault, is this concerned... "He's not just some rich guy buying gifts, is he?"

"Skye." Jazz's voice drops. "Drop it. Please."

I sit back, mind racing. The way he examines everything like he's hunting. The carefully maintained distance. The pure fear in people's eyes when they spot him.

"I should get back to the store." I gather my things, ignoring the worried looks my friends exchange. "New shipment coming in."

"Skye-" Jazz starts.

"I hear you." I force a smile. "Really. I'll be careful."

I could ask her to tell me and she would. But I…don't want to know. I'm not ready. I like my limbo and the way I can cling to my deniability.

As I walk away, all I can think about are those ice-blue eyes and the darkness that lurks behind them.

I unlock the boutique's front door, flipping the sign back to "Open." The quiet space feels different now - charged somehow, like the air before a storm. My fingers trail along a rack of designer dresses, straightening items that don't need straightening.

I catch myself watching the door and force my attention to the new shipment boxes. But even as I slice through packing tape and sort through tissue paper, my mind catalogs his patterns. The way he checks that antique silver watch before entering - right hand, two fingers brushing the face, a quarter turn of his wrist. The perfectly measured steps that carry him through my carefully curated displays.

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