Chapter 221 The Trap
Sophia's POV
The office felt suffocating.
I sat at my desk, staring blankly at fabric swatches.
My mind kept circling back to hours ago, the bruising grip on my hips, the way he violently shoved me down.
My phone buzzed. Another message from Lucas: Take the day off. Don't come tonight.
I blinked at the screen, reading it twice. Lucas giving me a night off? That was... unexpected. Almost suspicious. In three years, he'd never voluntarily released me from an evening summons. What had changed?
Maybe Claire had said something to him. Maybe his conscience—if he had one—was finally kicking in.
I should have felt relieved. Instead, unease crawled up my spine. Lucas didn't do mercy. He did control.
I grabbed my purse anyway and headed out. The pharmacy was two blocks away—I bought arnica gel for the fingerprint bruises on my thighs and arms.
The subway ride to Queens felt endless. This cramped studio was the only thing Lucas had let me keep when my family's company collapsed.
Everything else he'd stripped away: my job prospects, my savings, my self-respect.
I collapsed onto my worn couch, closing my eyes against the afternoon light.
My phone buzzed. WhatsApp notification. Unknown number.
The profile picture showed a blonde woman, elegant and cold. The name: Claire.
My stomach dropped. Lucas's fiancée.
I accepted the contact request, curiosity overriding self-preservation.
Claire: [I know who you are. I know what you've been doing with Lucas.]
My hands went numb.
Claire: [I'm not angry with you. I pity you. You're just a phase. A mistake he'll regret. Lucas and I are getting married in six months.]
I laughed bitterly. A phase. Three years reduced to a phase.
Claire: [I'm asking you, woman to woman, to walk away. You deserve better than being someone's secret.]
Something reckless in me—some spark of who I used to be—made me type back.
Me: [I want to leave. I've wanted to leave for a long time. But I can't.]
Claire: [What do you mean you can't? Just stop seeing him.]
Me: [It's not simple. If it were, I would have left years ago.]
Her sympathetic tone evaporated.
Claire: [You're lying. Trying to manipulate me so you can keep your claws in him.]
Me: [I'm not lying. I'm telling you the truth—I can't leave.]
Claire: [Then I'll make you leave. He told me you were nothing. When we're married, he'll forget you existed.]
Claire: [So enjoy whatever time you have left. Because I'm going to end this. Soon.]
The chat went silent. I dropped my phone, pressing my palms against my eyes. She thought this was a romantic rivalry.
She had no idea how tightly Lucas had me bound—financially, emotionally, professionally.
I wasn't staying because I loved him. I was staying because he had my parents under his control.
I walked to the bathroom, twisting the cap off the arnica gel. As I peeled off my jeans, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Hollow eyes. Sharp collarbones. Bruises blooming across my thighs.
Then I noticed something else.
My period was late.
I froze, grabbing my phone with shaking hands, scrolling through my calendar. Six weeks ago. Eight weeks. Two months.
Two months.
How had I not noticed? But I knew how—too busy surviving Lucas to pay attention to my own body.
Pregnant. I might be pregnant with his child.
The room tilted. Lucas, who'd told me I wasn't "mother material." Who was engaged to someone else. Who'd made me sign an NDA about our "arrangement."
I couldn't be pregnant. But my body didn't care what I could handle.
Suddenly, his unexpected mercy made perfect sense. Had he somehow figured it out? Was this his way of giving me space to "handle" the problem quietly?
I grabbed my coat and ran.
---
The clinic in Astoria was small, tucked between a laundromat and bodega. I gave a fake name—Sarah Martinez—and filled out forms with trembling hands.
Dr. Patel was middle-aged with kind eyes that made me want to cry.
"When was your last period?" she asked gently.
"Two months ago. Maybe longer."
"Any symptoms? Nausea, fatigue?"
I thought about the exhaustion I'd blamed on stress, the way my bra felt tighter, the nausea I'd attributed to skipping meals.
"Yes. All of that."
The urine test took three minutes that felt like eternity.
"You're pregnant," Dr. Patel said simply. "About eight weeks along."
Eight weeks of Lucas's child growing inside me while I'd been too broken to notice.
"I want to terminate," I said, the words tumbling out. "I need to get rid of it. As soon as possible."
Dr. Patel didn't flinch. "That's your right. But I need you to take time to think about it. This is a significant decision."
"I'm certain. I can't have this baby. I can't—" My throat closed.
"I understand. But legally, there's a forty-eight-hour waiting period."
I wanted to scream. Lucas would notice something was wrong. Every second this thing grew was another second I was trapped.
"Come back in two days," she said, handing me a folder of pamphlets. "If you still want to proceed, we'll schedule it."
I left in a daze. The subway platform was crowded with evening rush hour. I stood at the yellow line, staring down at the tracks, understanding for one terrible moment why people jumped.
Two days. Forty-eight hours to sit with the knowledge that Lucas Reynolds's child was inside me.
But deep down, I already knew there was no choice. There had never been a choice.
My phone remained silent. No demanding texts. No last-minute summons. Lucas's uncharacteristic kindness felt more ominous than his usual cruelty.
I stared at my reflection in the train window, my hand instinctively moving to my still-flat stomach. In two days, I'd erase the last piece of evidence he'd ever touched me.