The Avenger

A thousand conversations hummed beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Grand Hall in Château Lumière, while crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow across a sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. Sophie Clarke paused at the entrance. The click of her borrowed heels was lost in the hum of the soirée. For a moment, she almost turned back, her confidence swallowed up by the sheer opulence of the gathering.

She clutched the silver clutch that she had 'borrowed' from Clara, her best friend and the mastermind behind her plan to infiltrate the event. Sophie wasn't supposed to be here; the embossed invitation in her hand had someone else's name on it. But desperation made people do daring things, and tonight, Sophie was willing to risk it all.

She smoothed the low neckline of the secondhand black gown that hugged her curves in all the right ways. "Confidence," she whispered. "You belong here."

Sophie's eyes scanned the room, zeroing in on the man who'd brought her to this moment in time: Ethan Hayes, billionaire, philanthropist, and - according to her late father's journals - the man whose company had orchestrated her family's downfall.

Ethan Hayes stood near the far end of the room, a glass of champagne in hand, his posture relaxed yet commanding. At thirty-five, he wore an aura of easy command. His crisp black tuxedo was perfectly tailored, and his sharp jawline clean-shaven. Piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd with practiced detachment, his head nodding from time to time as one well-wisher or another approached.

"I see you're playing the part of the brooding billionaire tonight," a voice drawled beside him. Ethan glanced to his right, where Alex, his brother, smirked while swirling his own glass of champagne.

"Not brooding. Just observing," Ethan replied, his tone clipped.

Alex chuckled. "Looking at what? The line of sycophants or the art they are pretending to view?" He nodded toward the far wall where a Monet was hanging with soft light upon it.

Ethan ignored him and turned his eyes away. It was then he saw her.

Sophie's breath caught as her eyes landed on him. Ethan Hayes. Compelling, even from across the room, he was tall, composed, with an aura of quiet power that seemed to fit the billionaire she had read about. For a moment, her resolve faltered. Was this really the man responsible for her father's ruin? Could someone so poised, so self-assured, be capable of such coldness?

She reminded herself why she was here. Ethan Hayes might seem charming, but she couldn't afford to forget the pain his family's company had caused. Tonight, she would confront him-not directly, not yet-but she would get close enough to learn the truth.

Sophie moved toward the Monet, using the painting as an excuse to inch closer to Ethan.

Ethan couldn't pull his eyes away from her. The woman in front of the Monet was different from anyone else in that room. Her black gown was simple, almost basic, and her dark hair was looped into a loose chignon. Still, it was her expression that threw him off balance. She saw the painting without the practiced disinterest of the elite, her face filled with honest-to-goodness admiration.

Ethan crossed the room without thinking, leaving Alex mid-sentence.

It wasn't until she heard the deep timbre of his voice that Sophie sensed someone approach but didn't turn.

"Monet has a way of drawing you in, doesn't he?" Ethan said, his voice conversational and confident.

Sophie turned to him, her heart racing, as she met his gaze; up close, his presence was overwhelming. "It's like he's caught a moment of serenity," she said, trying to sound steady, "a world unknown to chaos."

Ethan's eyebrow shot up; he sounded interested. "A poetic explanation. Most usually comment on colors or the technique used.

Sophie gave a wry smile, playing the role. "I suppose I see things differently."

"And how do you see me?" Ethan's lips quirked into a subtle smile as his blue eyes studied her intently.

The sound of his voice made her heart skip a beat. She hadn't expected him to be so direct. "I see a man who doesn't belong here," she said, surprising herself.

Ethan chuckled softly, a rich sound that ran down her spine like a shiver. "You're not wrong. And what about you? Do you belong here?"

Sophie hesitated, taken aback by his perceptiveness. "I suppose that depends on your definition of belonging," she said cautiously.

"Interesting answer," Ethan said, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm Ethan Hayes."

She extended her hand, willing her body to behave itself. "Sophie Clarke."

Ethan took her hand, holding it firmly with gentle pressure. "A pleasure, Sophie; what brings you to the gala tonight?"

She hesitated for a moment-a moment that saw her in her bathroom in front of the mirror a hundred times over, perfecting this reaction. "I'm an artist," she lied. "Came to look at the collection-and maybe make some nice patron connections."