Page 4 of His Ruthless Claim

"These pieces just arrived yesterday." I hold up a flowing silk kaftan in cerulean blue, strategically positioning myself so she faces away from the windows. Away from the warehouse where I know Nerio's men handle "special assignments" for The Vault. "The color brings out your eyes beautifully."

Mrs. Henderson's attention wavers between the garment and the door. I can see the moment self-preservation wins over conscience - it always does in this neighborhood. The wealthy didn't stay wealthy here by playing hero.

"I suppose..." She runs her fingers over the silk. "It is gorgeous. And Charles always did say blue was my color."

"The cut is incredibly flattering too." I usher her toward the fitting rooms, away from thoughts of warehouses and screams and things better left unacknowledged. "Would you like a glass of champagne while you try it on?"

This is how we survive here - redirecting, deflecting, draping ugly truths in beautiful fabrics until they disappear like yesterday's fashions. I've mastered the art of selective blindness, learned to filter reality through a lens of luxury and discretion.

Mrs. Henderson nods, already slipping into the familiar comfort of retail therapy. "Yes, champagne would be lovely. And perhaps that green dress in the window too?"

"Of course." I pour the bubbly into a crystal flute, the pop of the cork covering another distant scream.

Once Mrs. Henderson leaves with her purchases, I close up for the hour and slip into my office and unwrap my lunch - a kale and quinoa bowl from the organic place down the street. My phone vibrates against the glass desk.

"Hey babe, you still good for tonight?" Jazz's voice is mildly distracted, which has become very normal for her.

I nod. "Looking forward to it. I've got a killer new dress."

Jazz has a hard time turning off work mode and just hanging out with us, especially after everything that went down with her fiancé. But we're all meeting tonight at The Vault for drinks and a good time.

"You always have the best outfits."

She sounds wistful and I have to bite back a laugh. "I'm bringing something for you, too."

"You're the best!" Jazz laughs. "Oh, and Nerio wants to know if you've seen any interesting new faces in the neighborhood?"

My gaze drifts to the window where the suits stood earlier. "Just the usual window shoppers. Though some seemed very interested in the architecture."

"Noted." The word carries weight. "Listen, I should go. These invoices won't process themselves."

"Of course. Give my best to your fiancé." The word still feels strange on my tongue. Jazz - my fierce, independent friend - engaged to one of Chicago's most dangerous men. The ring on her finger might as well be a target. But she really does love him.

"Will do. Love you, babe."

The line goes dead and I set my phone down, finishing up eating before I get back upstairs. I need to find what I'll bring Jazz and make sure my orders are filled before I can get ready to go out.

By the time the sun is setting, I have four dresses picked and packed. Kendra, another one of my friends that I met through Jazz, has invited me to come get ready at her place. Then we'll go to The Vault together.

As I close up, though, my routine feels different tonight. Each click of a hanger, each fold of designer silk sets my nerves on edge. Through the windows, those same suits linger likedark sentinels, their presence a constant reminder that in this neighborhood, being watched is rarely a good thing.

Not like I can storm out there and demand to know who they are, though. I'll just have to wait it out.

I triple-check the security system, my movements precise and unhurried despite my racing pulse. The diamond-bright display lights dim one by one until only the soft glow of exit signs remains. My keys slide between my knuckles - a habit learned in college that never quite faded, even after upgrading to this "safer" neighborhood.

The men's reflection in my window vanishes as I turn the final lock. When I look over my shoulder, the street appears empty - no suits, no watchers. Somehow, their absence feels more menacing than their presence. Like a predator stepping out of view before the strike.

My heels click against the pavement as I round the corner toward my parking spot. The sound echoes off brick walls, bouncing back distorted and wrong. A gust of wind carries the scent of expensive cologne - sharp, masculine, dangerous.

Something makes me turn. Maybe instinct, maybe the weight of unseen eyes.

He stands in the shadows where the streetlight doesn't quite reach. Tall, lean, deadly in an expertly tailored suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. But it's his eyes that freeze me in place - ice blue and utterly empty, like looking into the void itself. They lock onto mine with predatory focus, no emotion, no warmth. Just cold calculation.

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches with unnerving stillness that stuns me. I should feel terrified as I stare at him, but all I can think is that he is unfairly handsome - if not terrifying from the way danger rolls off him.

But if he thinks I'm going to run or cower, he is wrong. I let my lips curl up at the edge as I turn the corner and keep striding without a single falter until I get my car.

Only my pounding heart knows how terrified I really was.

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