Page 146 of The Owner's Temptation

Looking across the gathered crowd it doesn’t take me long to find my perfect partners in this scheme.

A group of five—clustered near the back of the room, slightly apart from the central buzz of conversation. They look new. Late twenties.. Clean-cut. Fit.

Wealth practically dripping from their expensive shoes and the watches they can’t stop adjusting. No visible tattoos. Just money, nerves, and curiosity.

They must be brand new clients.

They’re clearly unsure how to approach the Companions, still working out how this world operates.

Perfect.

I run my hand slowly through my hair, fingers sliding through the waves I spent an hour perfecting. Two of them notice immediately, eyes locking on mine.

Bingo.

I tip my head, letting my gaze linger. A smile plays at the edge of my lips.

Time to work.

Time to be unforgettable.

And time to make Lucian fuckingregretever thinking he could control me.

They’re exactly as I hoped—eager, attractive, just uncertain enough to be grateful for my attention.

My approach is subtle.

Just enough flirtation to stir the air between us, never too much. I laugh lightly at their jokes, tilt my head when one of them says something clever, make a small comment about his cufflinks that has the whole group trying to flash theirs next.

And they eat it up.

For thirty minutes, I work them like pawns on my own personal chessboard, slowly wrapping each one around my finger until they’re orbiting me like planets.

And right on cue, just as one leans in to murmur something harmless in my ear—something about how the music makes it hard to hear buthe’d love to get to know me better—Lucian arrives.

I don’t need to look to know.

Ifeelhim enter the room.

His presence slices through the atmosphere like a blade, sharp and cold, shifting the energy without a single word. My breath catches before I can stop it, my pulse flickering. Then I glance up—slow, measured.

Our eyes lock.

There he is.

Lucian Vale in a black tux that was clearly made for his body and no one else. Impossibly calm. Thunderously still. His steel-gray gaze is locked on me, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight: me surrounded by five men, one whispering in my ear, my champagne glass tilted delicately in my hand.

I arch a brow at him—not in challenge, but in acknowledgment. As if to say,Of course I’m here. Why wouldn’t I be?

I think he’ll storm over. I expect it.

But instead, he’s intercepted—two clients corner him, hands on his arm, laughter in their voices as they try to draw him into conversation.

He listens. Barely.

But he doesn’t break eye contact with me for a full three seconds before finally tearing his gaze away.

I hide my smirk behind the rim of my glass.

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