Page 144 of Their Arrangement
He’d ask forher.
19
CLOE
The invitation arrived sealedin a velvet envelope.
Black.
No logo.
No name.
Just weight.
Wolfe dropped it on my desk without a word. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t pause. Just kept walking. His footsteps echoed too loud in the stillness, a sound that shouldn’t have made my heart race—but it did.
I stared at the envelope for a long time before touching it. Like it might burn. Like it might brand.
The velvet was soft under my fingertips, but the chill in my palms said otherwise. This wasn’t paper. It was something else. Something sharp.
I slid a finger beneath the flap, slow, cautious. The edge sliced the tip of my nail. Inside, in clean, glinting silver script:
Lawlor Diamonds cordially invites you to the Annual Foundation Auction.
Attendance required.
Attire: Formal.
Silence: Expected.
Four lines. No names. No details. Just a demand.
I read it twice. Then again. Each word felt like a collar being fastened around my throat. I wasn’t asked. I wasn’t invited. I was expected. The script didn’t threaten. But it didn’t have to. It was Wolfe’s handwriting.
Of course it was. My eyes lifted from the envelope. Across the bullpen. Past the quiet hum of printers and the clack of polished shoes on stone tile.
Royal was watching me from the far side of the floor. Leaning against the glass wall with a cup of coffee he wasn’t drinking. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just raised one brow like he knew exactly what kind of night it was going to be. Like he’d already placed his bet. And I was the prize on the table.
Heat crawled up my spine. Not shame. Not yet. But something close. Anticipation laced with dread.
There were things in this building I didn’t understand. Rooms I hadn’t seen. Names I hadn’t heard. And this invitation? It wasn’t about charity. It was about hierarchy. About spectacle. About control.
I set the envelope down like it might hear me thinking too loud. Then I smoothed my skirt, folded my hands in my lap, and pretended to keep working. But my eyes stayed on Royal. And his never left me.
The car arrived at 6:00 p.m. sharp.
Black.
Windows tinted so dark I couldn’t see the driver’s eyes. He didn’t speak when he opened the door. Didn’t look at me when he handed me the note.
My name. One word. Nothing else.
CLOE.
Wolfe’s handwriting. Of course it was.
I slid into the backseat slowly, smoothing my skirt over my knees as if it mattered. The interior smelled like leather and secrets. The backseat held a single garment bag. Hung neatly on the hook beside me like it had been waiting there since last night.
