Claimed By The Coldhearted Sterling Heir

The VIP suite at Neiman Marcus was larger than the entire trailer she grew up in. Mirrors covered every wall, reflecting Elara's discomfort from a dozen angles.

Liam was sitting on a plush velvet sofa outside the dressing room, typing on his phone while three sales assistants hovered around him with trays of sparkling water.

Inside the small cubicle, Elara held a dress of deep, midnight blue silk. The tag dangled against her wrist: $3,500. It was obscene. It was beautiful.

She shimmied into it. The silk felt like cool water against her skin. It fit perfectly, hugging her hips and waist, flaring out slightly at the floor.

She reached behind her back to pull up the invisible zipper. It was stiff. She strained, arching her back, her fingers fumbling.

Zip.

The mechanism jammed. It wasn't just stuck; the delicate fabric had wedged itself deep into the teeth of the zipper halfway up her spine. Elara cursed silently.

She didn't panic. Panic was for people who had safety nets. She reached for a hanger, trying to use the hook to pry the fabric loose, twisting her body to get a better angle in the mirror. She worked at it for five minutes, sweat prickling her skin, but the silk was unforgiving.

"Miss Vance?" Liam's voice came from outside. "Mr. Sterling is on his way up. Are you almost done?"

"I... just a minute!" Elara called out, her voice tight with frustration.

Footsteps echoed on the marble floor outside. Heavy, confident strides.

"Liam," Julian's voice was sharp. "Why are we still here? Arthur eats at seven sharp."

"She's in the final outfit, sir. Taking a bit of time."

Elara heard a knuckle rap against the door. "Vance. Open the door."

"I can't!" Elara replied, still wrestling with the zipper. "I'm not decent."

"We are on a schedule, Vance," Julian said, his voice devoid of patience. "I'm sending the attendant in."

"No!" Elara said quickly. She didn't want a stranger touching her. "Just... give me a second."

"You have ten seconds before I consider this a medical emergency and breach the door myself," Julian warned. He sounded like he was negotiating a hostage release, cold and functional.

Elara's hand shook with annoyance as she reached for the lock. She clicked it open.

The door swung inward. Julian stepped in, immediately filling the small space. He closed the door behind him, sealing them in.

The scent of him-sandalwood and cold air-overwhelmed the perfume of the store.

He looked at her. His eyes traveled from her bare shoulders down the curve of her spine to where the zipper had eaten her hair and the dress fabric.

He didn't mock her. He didn't make a snide comment about her clumsiness.

He pulled off his leather gloves, tossing them onto the small bench.

"Turn around," he commanded.

Elara obeyed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She exposed her back to him, her hair tangled in the metal teeth of the dress.