Chapter 220
Sophia's POV
"You're that desperate to get away from me just because you found out I'm getting married?" He demanded frantically.
I forced myself to meet his eyes, channeling every ounce of defiance I had left. The late afternoon sun streaming through his office windows caught the amber flecks in his dark irises—eyes I'd once drowned in willingly.
"Yeah. I'm thrilled. Thrilled that I finally have a chance to get rid of you."
For a split second, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or disbelief that I'd dare say it out loud. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, and his hands loosened their grip just slightly.
Then his expression went cold. Arctic. Dead.
Before I could brace myself, he threw me.
My back slammed into the wall with enough force to knock the air from my lungs.
The mahogany paneling shuddered under the impact, and I heard the sharp crack of his framed Harvard diploma hitting the floor.
Pain exploded through my shoulder blade, radiating down my spine like lightning.
I crumpled, catching myself on my hands and knees, gasping for breath that wouldn't come.
"Lucas—"
He was on me in an instant, hauling me up by my arm, fingers digging into already-bruised skin. I bit back a cry as he shoved me against the wall again, this time pinning me there with his body. The familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker—filled my lungs.
"You think I'd let you go?" His voice was deadly quiet, the tone he used in boardrooms right before he destroyed someone. "You think marrying Claire changes anything?"
I tried to twist away, but he was too strong, too close. His hand clamped around my throat—not choking, but the threat was clear. His palm was warm against my skin, his thumb resting over my racing pulse.
"If you're getting married," I hissed through clenched teeth, "then what am I supposed to be? Your mistress? Your dirty little secret while you play happy family?"
His eyes narrowed, something vicious flashing in their depths. "If that's what it takes, I'd rather die."
For a moment—just a flicker—something almost like pain crossed his face.
His grip on my throat loosened fractionally, thumb brushing over my pulse point with an echo of old tenderness.
His other hand lifted slightly, fingers reaching toward my face as if to cup my cheek, to wipe away tears I refused to shed.
Then he caught himself. His hand froze midair, trembling slightly, before he clenched it into a fist and let it drop.
His expression hardened again, cold and merciless. "You won't die, Sophia. I won't let you." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear, and I felt him inhale deeply, like he was trying to memorize my scent. "You'll stay right here, exactly where I want you, for as long as I want you. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it."
The certainty in his voice made my stomach drop.
Because he was right.
He'd already proven he could keep me here indefinitely. My parents locked away in his private "facility." My company stolen through hostile takeovers and manufactured scandals. My freedom gone, piece by calculated piece. What was left to fight with?
"You're insane," I whispered.
"Maybe." His hand slid from my throat to cup my jaw, forcing me to look at him. For a second, his thumb traced my cheekbone with something almost like reverence, his eyes softening. "But you're mine. And I don't let go of what's mine."
The softness vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by cold possession.
I stared at him, this man I'd once loved more than life itself, and saw only my jailer. The designer suit couldn't hide the monster he'd become. Or maybe the monster he'd always been.
Four years. Four years of this suffocating control, this twisted obsession he called ownership. And now he was telling me it would never end—not when he married Claire, not ever.
Unless I found a way out myself.
The thought settled over me like ice water. I couldn't keep waiting for mercy that would never come. I had to think. Plan. Find the cracks in his surveillance, the moments when his attention wavered.
Because Lucas was right about one thing: he could keep me here as long as he wanted.
But everyone made mistakes eventually.
I let my body go limp against the wall, let exhaustion show in my face. It wasn't hard—I was so tired. "I'm tired, Lucas."
He studied me for a long moment, those calculating eyes searching for deception. His hand twitched at his side, lifting slightly as if he wanted to touch me again—to comfort or to claim, I couldn't tell. But he caught himself again, fingers curling inward.
Finally, he stepped back. The loss of his heat should have been a relief. It wasn't. The air conditioning in his office was always too cold.
"Get dressed, then left." he said flatly, but his voice cracked slightly on the words.
I pushed off the wall, every muscle protesting. My shoulder throbbed where I'd hit the wall, promising spectacular bruises by morning. I'd have to remember to wear long sleeves. Again.
As I pulled on my discarded clothes with shaking hands, I caught him watching me in the reflection of his office window. His face was a study in conflict—jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides.
"This week," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral as I buttoned my blouse. "It's my parents' visiting day. I hope you told your people."
Lucas was already at the door, straightening his tie with hands that weren't quite steady. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, shoulders tense.
"Lucas?" I prompted when he didn't respond.
He glanced back at me, and for just a moment, I saw him start to reach for me again. His hand lifted, fingers extending toward me like he wanted to pull me close, to take back everything he'd just done.
The gesture was so achingly familiar—how many times had he reached for me just like that when we were happy?
But then his face hardened, and something cruel flickered in his eyes. His hand dropped.
"You should see a doctor first," he said, his tone forcibly conversational. "Get that shoulder looked at." His gaze raked over me, and I watched him deliberately make it cold, clinical. "I don't want a doll that can't move in bed."
"Yeah, I will, Mr. Reynolds." I stormed out after saying that in a huff.