Chapter 41 Mercy's Visit

Chapter 41 Mercy's Visit
Mercy's Visit

"Oh my God, Sophia, what happened to your face?" Mercy's voice cracked with shock as she stood frozen in the doorway of Sophia's suite, her eyes taking in the angry purple bruise along her friend's jawline and the scratches on her arms.

Sophia instinctively touched her face, wincing slightly at the tender skin. She'd forgotten how the injuries looked to someone seeing them fresh. After three days of staring at her reflection, she'd grown numb to the sight of the damage she'd inflicted on herself in those dark hours after Ethan's accusations.

"It's nothing," Sophia said quietly, stepping back to let Mercy enter. "Just... I had an accident."

"An accident?" Mercy's voice rose with disbelief as she closed the door behind her. "That looks like someone hit you. Multiple times."

"No one hit me," Sophia replied, which was technically true. Ethan had raised his hand but never brought it down. The bruises were her own doing… the result of punching walls and clawing at her skin during the breakdown that followed her confinement.

Mercy approached slowly, as if she were dealing with a wounded animal that might bolt. Her usually bright expression was clouded with concern and something that looked like fear.

"Sophie, honey, you look..." she trailed off, clearly searching for words that wouldn't sound insulting.

"Different," Sophia finished for her, settling onto the couch and gesturing for Mercy to join her. "I know. I can see it in the mirror."

And she could. The woman looking back at her from reflective surfaces was a stranger… thinner, paler, with eyes that held shadows that hadn't been there months ago. The confident young woman who'd worked three jobs and cared for her brother had been replaced by someone fragile and hollow.

"When was the last time you ate?" Mercy asked, settling beside her but maintaining some distance, as if she wasn't sure this version of Sophia was safe to get too close to.

"I don't know," Sophia admitted. "Agatha brings trays, but I'm not really hungry anymore."

"Not really hungry?" Mercy's voice cracked again. "Sophie, you look like you've lost twenty pounds. Your clothes are hanging off you."

Sophia looked down at the expensive dress she wore… one of the many designer pieces that had been selected for her by Isabella before everything fell apart. Mercy was right; the fabric hung loose around her frame, emphasizing how much weight she'd lost during her confinement.

"I've been sick," she said weakly, another technical truth. She had been sick… sick with grief, sick with betrayal, sick with the crushing weight of isolation.

"Sick with what?" Mercy leaned forward, her nurse's instincts clearly kicking in. "Have you seen a doctor? These bruises, this weight loss… Sophia, you need medical attention."

"I've seen doctors." Too many doctors, actually. The family physician who'd examined her after her breakdown, the psychiatrist Diego had insisted evaluate her mental state, the specialists who'd confirmed she posed no physical threat to anyone but herself. "Everyone says I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Mercy said firmly. "You're the furthest thing from fine I've ever seen. What the hell is going on here?"

Sophia stared at her hands, trying to figure out how to explain the past few months to someone who lived in the normal world. How could she tell Mercy about planted evidence and false accusations? About being locked in her room for days while her husband decided whether she was a traitor? About the complete destruction of the fragile trust she'd built with a man who saw love as weakness?

"It's complicated," she said finally, the same weak response she'd been giving everyone.

"Complicated how?" Mercy's voice carried the sharp edge of someone who'd had enough of evasions. "Sophia, I've been worried sick about you. You stopped answering my calls, stopped responding to texts. The few times I tried to visit, I was told you weren't available. And now I finally get to see you, and you look like you've been through hell."

"I have been through hell," Sophia said quietly, meeting her friend's eyes for the first time since she'd arrived.

The honesty in her voice seemed to hit Mercy like a physical blow. Her friend's face crumpled with concern and something that looked like guilt.

"What did he do to you?" Mercy whispered. "That husband of yours… what did he do?"

"He didn't..." Sophia started to defend Ethan automatically, then stopped. What was she defending? His refusal to listen when she tried to explain? His willingness to believe she was capable of betrayal? His decision to lock her away while he decided her fate?

"He believed lies about me," she said finally. "He thought I betrayed him, betrayed his family. And when I tried to tell him the truth, he wouldn't listen."

"What kind of lies?"

"The kind that destroy everything good between two people." Sophia's voice broke slightly. "The kind that make someone you love look at you like you're a stranger."

Mercy reached out tentatively, as if she wasn't sure whether Sophia would welcome physical comfort. When Sophia didn't pull away, she gently took her friend's hand.

"Sophie, your hands are shaking," she said softly.

Sophia looked down and realized Mercy was right. Her hands were trembling with a fine tremor she'd developed during her confinement. Another physical manifestation of the stress and isolation.

"I'm not sleeping well," she admitted.

"When was the last time you left this room?"

The question hung in the air between them. Sophia tried to remember and realized she couldn't. Days had blended together in a haze of meals brought on trays and sleepless nights staring at the ceiling.

"I don't know," she whispered.

"Jesus Christ," Mercy breathed. "Sophia, this isn't marriage. This is imprisonment."

The word hit like truth, sharp and undeniable. Imprisonment. That's exactly what this was, dressed up in designer clothes and served on silver platters but imprisonment nonetheless.

"I can't leave," Sophia said, her voice barely audible. "Even if I wanted to, I can't leave. Marcus needs the medical care, and I have nowhere to go, and…"

"You can come home with me," Mercy interrupted fiercely. "Right now. Pack a bag, get your brother, and we'll figure out the rest later."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

Because Ethan would find them. Because the Rossi family didn't let people just walk away. Because despite everything, despite the pain and betrayal and isolation, part of her still loved the man who'd destroyed her.

But she couldn't say any of that to Mercy, who lived in a world where abusive situations had clear solutions and love was supposed to be simple.

"Because it's not," she said instead.

Mercy studied her face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. "You still love him," she said finally, her voice filled with dismay. "After everything he's done to you, you still love him."

"I don't know what I feel anymore," Sophia admitted. "I'm so confused and hurt and angry that I can't tell the difference between love and Stockholm syndrome."

The clinical term seemed to shock them both. Stockholm syndrome. Was that what this was? Had she been isolated and manipulated for so long that she couldn't distinguish between genuine feeling and psychological dependence?

"Sophia," Mercy said carefully, "what I'm seeing right now scares me. The weight loss, the bruises, the isolation, the way you flinch when you move… this isn't normal. This isn't healthy."

"I know."

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've forgotten who you used to be. The Sophia I knew was strong, independent, capable of taking care of herself and everyone she loved. This person..." she gestured gently at Sophia's fragile form, "this isn't her."

The words hit like truth, painful and necessary. Sophia had forgotten who she used to be. The woman who'd thrown dirty water at a stranger to protect someone she thought was being hurt had been replaced by someone who cowered in expensive rooms and ate from trays like a pet.

"I don't know how to get her back," she whispered.

"You start by remembering that you deserve better than this," Mercy said firmly. "You start by remembering that love isn't supposed to make you disappear into nothing."

As Mercy prepared to leave an hour later, promising to find a way to help despite Sophia's protests, Sophia caught sight of herself in the mirror. The hollow-eyed woman staring back was a stranger… a ghost of the person she used to be.

She felt something stir in her chest that wasn't despair.

It was anger. Clean, pure, righteous anger at what had been done to her and what she'd allowed to be done to herself.

She thought that Mercy was right. Maybe it was time to remember who she used to be.