Chapter 226
Sophia's POV
After breakfast, I excused myself to change into the clothes I kept at Lucas's penthouse—a careful selection of items that walked the line between presentable and forgettable.
I pulled on dark jeans and a cream sweater, high-necked enough to hide most of the marks Lucas had left on my skin, and checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Pale, tired, but passable. I'd have to be.
When I returned to the living room, Lucas was sprawled on the leather sofa, The Wall Street Journal spread across his lap, reading glasses perched on his nose. The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the sharp line of his jaw, the controlled set of his shoulders. He looked like what he'd once been—the boy I'd loved, before everything went to hell.
"Come here," he said without looking up.
I hesitated, my hand tightening on the strap of my bag. But resistance would only make things worse, so I crossed the room and sat beside him, careful to leave a few inches of space between us.
That lasted about three seconds.
Lucas's arm snaked around my waist, pulling me flush against his side with an ease that spoke of ownership rather than affection. I went rigid, my breath catching as he turned a page with his free hand, utterly relaxed, like I was just another piece of furniture in his meticulously curated life.
"Relax," he murmured, still reading. "You're so tense this morning."
Because you terrify me, I thought. Because I'm carrying your child and planning to get rid of it in two days.
But I forced myself to soften against him, to let my head rest on his shoulder the way he wanted. His hand moved to my hair, fingers threading through it in a gesture that might have been tender if it didn't feel so much like a leash.
Then he tilted my chin up and kissed me.
It started gentle—almost sweet—his lips brushing mine with something that resembled the Lucas I used to know.
But when I didn't respond immediately, when my body stayed frozen in that awful limbo between compliance and resistance, his hand tightened in my hair.
The kiss turned demanding, possessive, his tongue forcing past my lips as he angled my head back until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but endure.
I made a small sound of protest—barely audible—and tried to pull back.
He kissed me harder.
My hands pushed weakly at his chest, my lungs screaming for air, and still he didn't stop. Not until I was dizzy, gasping, my lips swollen and my throat tight with the effort of not crying.
When he finally released me, I slumped back against the sofa, one hand pressed to my mouth, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.
Lucas returned to his newspaper as if nothing had happened.
"The car will be here in ten minutes," he said mildly, turning another page. "Don't keep them waiting."
A buzzer sounded from the intercom.
"That's your ride," Lucas said, folding his paper with precise, economical movements. "Tell your mother I hope she feels better."
I stood on shaking legs, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.
I was halfway into the private elevator when I heard footsteps behind me.
"Sophia."
I froze, my hand on the door, and turned slowly.
Lucas was standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. For a moment—just a moment—I saw something flicker across his face. Regret? Uncertainty? But it was gone so fast I might have imagined it.
"What?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
He closed the distance between us in three strides, backed me against the elevator wall, and kissed me again. This time it was slow, deliberate, his hands framing my face like I was something precious. When he pulled back, his thumb traced my swollen lower lip.
"Be careful," he said quietly. "And come back tonight."
Then he was gone, disappearing back into the penthouse, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat and no idea what the hell had just happened.
---
The car ride to the estate took ninety minutes.
When we arrived, Mom looked better than when I last saw her on Saturday, her color slightly improved, though she still moved with the careful slowness of someone who couldn't quite catch her breath.
"Sophia!" She pulled me into a hug that smelled like lavender and illness. "Oh, sweetheart, I can't believe you managed this."
As she held me close, I felt her body tense. Her hand moved to my collar, gently pulling it aside.
"Dios mío," she whispered, pulling back to look at me with wide, horrified eyes. "What are these marks on your neck?"
My hand flew to my throat, tugging my sweater higher. "It's nothing, Mom. Just—"
"Those are bite marks, Sophia." Her voice was sharp despite its breathlessness. "And bruises. Who did this to you?"
I helped her gather her things for the hospital visit, avoiding her eyes. "We should get going. Dr. Patel is expecting us."
---
On the drive to the hospital, Mom wouldn't let it go.
"How did you do it?" she asked, her voice tight with suspicion. "Lucas has been so... strict about our movements. About everything. How did you convince him to let me see a real doctor? And don't you dare lie to me about those marks."
I kept my eyes on the road ahead. "I have my ways."
"Sophia." Her voice cracked. "Please tell me you didn't... please tell me you're not his mistress."
The word hit me like a slap. "Mom, it's not—"
"He has a fiancée!" she said, her voice rising with panic. "That woman, Claire—I saw the announcement. And he's doing this to you? Sophia, you have to get away from him. Lucas isn't the same man he used to be. Something's changed in him, something dark. The way the staff looks at him now, the way they whisper... and if he's using you while planning to marry someone else—"
"Mom, you're overthinking this," I lied, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. "I don't have anything going on with Lucas right now. I have a boyfriend, and he accidentally left these marks."
Then I spun a quick lie about how Elena Sterling was helping us out because her husband Julian Sterling and Lucas were tight—like, really close friends from way back.
I made it sound like Elena had pulled some strings, maybe talked to Julian who then convinced Lucas to let us use a real doctor.
"I want to meet him," she said firmly. "Soon. When you have time, bring him over to meet us. Your happiness is what matters."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
---
At the hospital, I checked Mom in with Dr. Patel, feeling relieved that she would finally get the care she needed. As I walked through the sterile corridors toward the waiting area, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure near the information desk.
A woman in an expensive coat, blonde hair catching the fluorescent lights. Something about her posture, the way she carried herself, reminded me of someone I'd seen in Lucas's office. His fiancée, maybe? But before I could get a better look, another wave of nausea hit me like a freight train.
I made a beeline for the bathroom.
I barely made it to a stall before I was on my knees, retching into the toilet. Nothing came up but bile—I hadn't been able to keep breakfast down—but my body kept trying, convulsing until my ribs ached and tears streamed down my face.
Eight weeks, I thought again. Just eight weeks. After Wednesday, this will be over.
I flushed, rinsed my mouth at the sink, and pressed a wet paper towel to my face. In the mirror, I looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, barely holding it together.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, she was waiting.
Claire Whitmore stood in the hallway, arms crossed, her elegant features twisted into something between anger and concern. She was dressed in Chanel, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, every inch the society princess Lucas was supposed to marry.
"Sophia," she said, her voice sharp. "You're not pregnant, are you?"