Chapter 84 Softness

Chapter 84 Softness

The scene was quiet, almost idyllic—like a carefully painted scene.

If you ignored the open collar of his robe, the glimpse of hard, sculpted chest beneath, and the way his eyes kept lifting from the page to rest on me… eyes that carried an unmistakable claim.

I pretended not to notice. I crossed the room to my suitcase, intent on snapping it shut.

"Sophia." His voice was clear in the stillness. "Come here."

My body went rigid. I didn't move.

"I've already taken care of your suitcase."

He set the book aside, heat radiating from his gaze. "Tomorrow, I'll have Colin buy you a new slip—exactly the same."

My eyes followed his toward the suitcase.

The black lace slip I had torn in half was gone.

So was the pink rabbit-eared vibrator that had made me want to disappear completely.

He had… cleaned up for me?

"I never expected," his gaze lingered on my awkward flannel sleepwear, his mouth curling into a faint smile, "you'd have such a… soft side."

Soft.

The word hit like a cold pin straight to my heart.

My head snapped up, my voice hard as steel. "I don't."

"Your sleepwear," he gestured toward me, "your expression, and the way you reacted in the bathroom like a startled kitten—all soft."

"I said I don't!" My voice rose, sharp and unyielding.

I hated that word.

Soft meant weak. Soft meant you could be controlled. Soft meant you could be hurt without pity.

I had been soft once.

It was in college, on a bright afternoon. My boyfriend Allen—then a charming, brilliant law student—had brushed my hair back and said, in the warmest voice in the world, "Sophia, you're the softest, most beautiful girl I've ever met."

And after I had given him everything, after I had opened every door inside me…

From that day on, "soft" was erased from my vocabulary.

"Soft only gets me torn apart."

I looked at Arthur, my voice trembling despite myself. "It took me years to piece myself back together. I'm not giving anyone the chance to rip me apart again."

That was why I had my rule.

"Tonight, you can't touch me."

I repeated it, my eyes sharp and resolute. "This isn't a game, and it's not some coy act. It's the line I draw as someone who stands beside you."

Silence fell heavy in the room.

His smile faded slowly.

"He hurt you." It wasn't a question.

I said nothing, biting down on my lip to keep my composure.

"So you're afraid." His voice was low, certain. "Not of me touching you… but of your body betraying your mind."

He cut straight to the core.

"You're afraid of losing control. Afraid of handing your emotions to someone else."

Each word drained the color from my face.

This man was more dangerous than any therapist. In a handful of sentences, he stripped away every layer of armor and saw the wounded, restless soul beneath.

"Sophia." He extended his hand, palm open, fingers long and calloused. "You're not afraid I'll hurt you."

He paused, his voice laced with something dangerously persuasive.

"You're afraid you'll let me."

My heart jolted hard.

He had seen through every defense, every fear.

I stood there, staring at that hand, staring into the dark whirlpool in his eyes, feeling like I was balanced on the edge of a cliff. One step forward and there would be no way back.

And behind me… there was no retreat.

"You're right." My voice came out rough. "I'm afraid. I'm terrified."

I lifted my eyes to his, catching the flash of satisfaction in them.

Bastard.

He was pushing me—forcing me to admit my fear, to face my desire.

He folded back the covers, patting the empty space beside him.

The sheets lay smooth, the pillow soft, like a trap disguised as comfort.

"Come here." His voice was deep, magnetic, impossible to refuse.

"You're the best at handling crises, aren't you, Sophia?" His gaze fixed on me like a hunter on prey.

"Now… let's see how you handle this one."

His mouth curved into a smile that was both beautiful and dangerous.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes darkening, the challenge clear. "Show me how you plan to deal with a crisis you can't ignore."

I looked at him—at the face that was all sharp lines and lethal charm.

Crisis.

He was my crisis.

And I, Sophia, was the best crisis manager in all of Asteria City.

Escape wasn't in my vocabulary.

I drew in a deep breath, straightened my spine, and under the weight of his amber eyes—eyes glinting with amusement and certainty—I walked toward the bed, one step at a time.

This wasn't surrender. It wasn't defeat.

It was engagement.

I slipped off my slippers, lifted the corner of the covers, and lay down.

I stayed at the very edge, keeping distance between us, my back rigid, aware of the heat of his gaze sweeping over me like a searchlight.

I could hear his steady breathing, smell the clean scent of his skin mixed with the cool bite of aftershave.

Seconds ticked by.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. But his presence filled the silence, a quiet declaration of victory.

And in that silence, I began to lose ground.

My heartbeat picked up, erratic and fast.

The heavy flannel felt like it was on fire.

I had already lost—from the moment I chose to walk into this room.

I turned slowly.

He was lying on his side, propped on one arm, watching me with eyes that caught the lamplight like fine gemstones.

"Well? Resolve it?" His smile was faint, teasing.

I didn't answer.

I just looked at him… and then, like a fish that had stopped struggling and swam straight into the net, I slid closer.

Until my forehead rested lightly against his chest.

I closed my eyes and let my face sink into him.