Page 65 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

I flash the man a polite smile, refraining from saying too much, from speaking out of term.

I know where I stand in Moretti Global. The place might be upscale, and the men Salvatore meets with make double my salary in a month, but I know my role. I write notes. I stay silent.

I’m not supposed to be here, especially when I catch the governor of New York taking a seat at one of the rounded tables.

Grand chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, the diamonds winking when they catch the light. Huge floral arrangements have also been prepared. Orchards. Juliet roses. Only the best for the affected families… if this event is even about honoring their loved ones.

I can barely smell the flowers. In fact, I feel like I’m walking through duty-free at the airport, inhaling hundreds of different fragrances all at once.

Smelling the notes for Baccarat Rouge 540, I know once again that I am in the wrong fucking place.

“This is a huge deal,” I murmur to Salvatore as we move through the room, finding our table.

“Fundraisers are huge events, and a lot of people are here to pay their respects after the tragedy. Here. It looks like we’re sitting right at the front.” Salvatore squeezes my hand, guiding me to the front table, where David and four other important government members are sitting.

“Um,” I choke, looking around, sweating like a sinner in church. I know too much information. It feels illegal to be in public, to know this much information. “Nice to meet you.”

I shake hands with David Hale, feeling a little better about myself, knowing he was part of the Crows, and therefore has secrets of his own.

He seems better at handling them than me, holding his composure in front of the literal governor of New York. He must be a seasoned liar, quite like Salvatore.

“You must be Ophelia Bennett,” says David. “Salvatore told me you were going to be attending tonight.”

“It’s just Phee.”

“Well, Phee,” says David, straightening his tie. “Thank you for being here. You must be pretty shaken up after what happened yesterday evening. Did you know Wilson?”

“I’m sorry?” I choke, too caught up in my own thoughts to know what is safe to answer.

“Wilson Peterson, the man with the heart attack?”

“Oh, yes, uh… sort of,” I stutter, reaching for the glass of prosecco in front of me. “I heard of him, of course, but we never met. I was at the memorial last night paying my respects.”

David nods, taking a sip of his prosecco the elegant way you’re supposed to at these formal events—two sips at most, pinky finger pointed away from the glass. You must never hold your drink using all five fingers. Noted.

Before I can pick up the glass and try again, I hear the tapping of glass coming from the stage.

Salvatore stands center stage, looking dreamy as ever. The glass tapping was unnecessary. Salvatore breathes and has everyone looking his way. I see now why Robert wanted this to be a public scene. His face alone can buy people’s opinions.

“Firstly, I wanted to give my deepest condolences to any family members here tonight who have been affected by the attack. Behind me—if my huge head is not blocking the monitor, you’ll find a QR code on the screen, which will take you straight to the page where you can donate. Anything is better than nothing… unless we’re talking about taxes.”

Like these people even fucking pay them.

The audience laughs, holding their phones up, scanning the code.

I look around the room, glancing at different faces. Jealousy writhes within me when I see two young females on the table over from me muttering something, giggling, their cheeks turning bright red. It goes without saying that Salvatore is every female’s fantasy, but nobody in this room knows him like I do, except maybe David, who has now vanished from the table.

Salvatore clicks onto the next slide using a handheld device. The room illuminates white, a huge number appearing on screen. “To kick off this evening with a bang, I would like to hand you over to the one and only David Hale. As you can see here, our local superhero has already donated forty-thousand dollars in total to the families. A big round of applause for David, everyone,” announces Salvatore. “But not for the shirt.” He grimaces performatively. “The blue silk washes you out, brother.”

“Thank you, David. I’m sure the fashionable people here in the audience tonight will appreciate blue silk.”

Another, smaller round of applause follows.

David laughs with the audience. “On a more serious note, my heart truly goes out to…”

The rest of David’s speech fades away, replaced by my own thumping heart, when I see Salvatore head back to the table.

He blows out a long breath. Deep lines are indented across his brow as he stares ahead.