Chapter 223
Sophia‘s POV
Mom reached for my face, cupping my cheek. Her palm was cold, clammy. "Sophia, no! Don't sacrifice yourself for us. Please."
"I'm not sacrificing anything." The lie burned my tongue. "I'm just... I'm working on it."
Dad's expression darkened, "Don't put yourself at risk for us."
"Just trust me," I whispered.
Mom started to respond, but a coughing fit seized her. She doubled over, one hand pressed to her chest, the other reaching blindly for her inhaler.
I grabbed it and pressed it into her palm, my heart hammering.
She took two puffs, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders heaving. Dad rubbed her back in slow circles, his face etched with helplessness.
It took a full minute before she could breathe normally again.
"I'm fine," she gasped, even though we could all hear the lie. "Really. I'm fine."
I looked at Dad. His eyes were wet.
"How often does this happen?" I asked him.
"A few times a day." His voice was barely audible. "Worse at night."
My throat tightened. "And the doctor they send—does he do anything? Prescribe anything stronger?"
"He says she needs to reduce stress." Dad's laugh was bitter. "As if that's possible here."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear this whole beautiful, suffocating house apart brick by brick.
Instead, I took Mom's hand again, gently this time.
"I'm going to fix this," I said. "I promise."
She smiled weakly. "You're a good daughter, Sophia. Too good."
We talked for another fifteen minutes—small talk, mostly. They asked about my apartment (fine), my health (fine), whether I was seeing anyone (I laughed bitterly at that).
But I kept watching Mom. The way she shifted in her seat, trying to find a position that made breathing easier. The way she touched her chest absently, like she could massage the tightness away. The way her lips moved in silent prayer between sentences.
She was suffering. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Not yet.
When the guard knocked on the door—three sharp raps—Mom's face crumpled.
"Already?" Her voice broke. "It's only been thirty minutes."
"I know." I stood, pulling her into a careful hug, mindful of her labored breathing. "I'll come back. I promise. As soon as I can."
She clung to me, her whole body shaking. Each breath rattled in her chest. "I love you. No matter what happens, remember that."
"I love you too, Mom." I pulled back, looking her dead in the eye. "And I'm going to get you real medical care. I swear."
Dad hugged me next, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Be smart, Sophia. Don't let anyone make you small."
Too late for that.
As I walked away, I glanced back one last time.
Mom had collapsed back into her chair, one hand on her inhaler, the other pressed to her chest. Dad knelt beside her, whispering something I couldn't hear.
They looked like they were drowning.
---
I made it to the car before the tears came.
I sat in the backseat of the sedan, shoulders shaking, trying to muffle my sobs so the driver wouldn't hear. My mother could barely breathe in that place. The flowers Lucas had planted were slowly killing her, and he knew it. He had to know it.
This wasn't just imprisonment. This was torture.
And it was my fault. My family's collapse, their confinement—all because Lucas wanted revenge on my father for breaking off our engagement seven years ago.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.
Okay. Okay. Think.
I couldn't fight Lucas head-on. He was too powerful, too ruthless. But maybe... maybe I didn't have to.
He responded to softness. To submission. To the illusion that I wanted him.
My stomach turned at the thought, but I pushed the nausea down.
If I played this right—if I made him believe I was his, willingly—maybe I could negotiate.
Maybe I could get Mom real medical attention. Maybe I could get them moved to a place without a garden full of allergens. Maybe I could buy them oxygen, proper medication, hope.
Maybe I could survive long enough to figure out how to destroy him.
I pulled out my compact, dabbing at my smudged mascara. Then I texted the driver: [Take me home. I need to change.]
---
Back at my apartment, I stood in front of my closet, staring at the rows of clothes like they were battle armor.
I needed something that said available without screaming desperate. Something that would make Lucas think this was my idea.
I settled on a fitted black dress—simple, elegant, with just enough skin to be suggestive. I curled my hair, reapplied my makeup, and—God help me—tucked a maxi pad into my underwear.
Just in case.
I was pregnant. Although I had decided to terminate the pregnancy, I was more terrified of experiencing a miscarriage during Lucas's violence—the pain and danger that would bring. That would be another form of torture.
I inserted a pad, just in case.
I stared at my reflection one last time.
‘You can do this. Just one more night. Then you'll figure out the next step.’
I grabbed my purse and headed out.
---
Lucas's penthouse was in Tribeca, all floor-to-ceiling windows and cold minimalist furniture. The doorman knew me by now—he didn't even ask my name, just waved me toward the elevator.
I rode up to the top floor, my heart pounding harder with each passing second.
When the doors opened, Lucas was waiting.
He leaned against the doorframe, dressed in dark slacks and a half-unbuttoned shirt, a glass of whiskey in one hand. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between amused and suspicious.
"Well, well." He took a slow sip, eyes raking over me. "You clean up nice, Sophia."
I met his gaze, forcing a coy smile. "I missed you."
The lie tasted like poison.
Lucas set his glass down and crossed the room in three strides. He caught my chin, tilting my face up to his.
His thumb brushed over my bottom lip, and I fought the urge to flinch.
"You missed me?" His voice was low, dangerous. "That's new."
I swallowed hard. "Is it so hard to believe?"
He studied me for a long moment, his gray eyes cold and calculating.
Then he smiled—sharp, predatory.
"You're really working an angle tonight, aren't you?"