Chapter 225
Sophia's POV
I woke to sunlight slicing through unfamiliar curtains, my body heavy with exhaustion. For a moment, I forgot where I was—forgot everything except the dull ache from my breast and the nausea that had become my constant companion.
Then I felt the weight of his arm across my waist.
Lucas.
I went rigid, my breath catching. His chest rose and fell against my back in the slow rhythm of sleep. The heat of him pressed into me, possessive even in unconsciousness.
Get out. Get out now.
I started to shift, trying to slide from beneath his arm without waking him. My muscles protested—sore, used. The memories of last night crashed over me in waves. The music. The dancing. The way I'd degraded myself on my knees, trading my body for promises about my mother's care.
His arm tightened.
"Going somewhere?" His voice was rough with sleep, but alert. Always alert.
My heart hammered. "I should... I need to go home."
"It's Sunday." His breath was warm against my neck. "This was supposed to be your day off, remember?"
"Still, I should—"
He rolled me onto my back in one smooth motion, pinning me beneath him before I could finish. The predatory gleam in his eyes made my stomach turn.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Not until you eat breakfast with me."
His mouth crashed down on mine, hard and demanding. I tasted last night's whiskey on his tongue as he forced his way past my lips, stealing my breath like he wanted to consume every part of me until nothing remained.
When he finally pulled back, I was gasping.
He moved lower, his lips trailing fire down my jaw to my neck. His teeth grazed my collarbone, and I felt his hand slide up my thigh, possessive and claiming.
"Lucas, please—" I pushed weakly at his shoulders. "Don't turn into a beast this early. I really can't handle it."
The nausea was rising again, sharp and insistent. I swallowed hard, trying to keep it down, trying to keep the panic from my voice. My hands pressed against his chest, trying to create distance.
He lifted his head, studying me with those calculating eyes. For a moment, I thought he'd ignore me, take what he wanted anyway. He'd done it before.
But then something shifted in his expression.
"Fine." He rolled off me with a sigh that sounded almost amused. "I'll let you off easy this time."
I didn't wait for him to change his mind. I scrambled from the bed, nearly tripping over the sheets, and made it to the bathroom just in time.
I locked the door and fell to my knees in front of the toilet, retching violently. Nothing came up but bile—I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. The morning sickness was definitely getting worse. Or maybe it was everything else—the stress, the fear, the absolute degradation of what I was doing.
Eight weeks, I thought, one hand pressed to my still-flat stomach. Eight weeks and I can barely function.
When the nausea finally subsided, I rinsed my mouth and splashed cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looked like a ghost—hollow-eyed, pale, broken.
I found one of Lucas's shirts and pulled it on. It hung to mid-thigh, smelling of his cologne. The scent used to comfort me. Now it just made me feel owned.
When I emerged, Lucas was already in the living room, dressed in gray sweatpants and nothing else. The penthouse was flooded with morning light—all floor-to-ceiling windows and cold modern furniture.
I'd never imagined this. Sharing breakfast with him like some normal couple.
After he'd trapped me in this arrangement, I'd become nothing more than a body he used. No conversations. No lazy mornings. Just sex—rough, demanding, sometimes cruel—and then dismissal.
I was his plaything. His release. Nothing more.
But now I had to pretend otherwise. Because I needed him. My mother needed him.
So I buried the hate. Buried the rage at what he'd done to my family, at how he'd imprisoned my parents, at how he'd reduced me to this.
I sat down at the table he'd set. Coffee. Pastries. Fruit on expensive china.
And I smiled. Sweet. Compliant.
"This looks wonderful," I said.
He watched me over his coffee cup. "You're trying today."
I reached for a croissant, tearing off a small piece. "Is that a problem?"
"Not at all." He leaned back. "It's refreshing."
We ate in silence—or rather, he ate while I pushed food around my plate. The coffee smell alone was making my stomach revolt.
"You're not eating," he observed.
"I'm just not very hungry in the mornings." I forced myself to take a bite.
He stood and walked around the table. I tensed, but he only reached for a napkin, leaning across to gently wipe the corner of my mouth.
The tenderness of the gesture made me want to scream.
"If you'd been like this before," he said softly, "things might have been different."
Different. As if he hadn't destroyed everything. As if he hadn't killed the girl I used to be.
I caught his hand, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
"Why weren't we like this before?" He asked, my voice wistful.
Because the Sophia who smiled for you every day is dead, I thought. You murdered her.
But I didn't say that. I just held his hand and looked at him like he mattered.
His expression softened. "I'll send someone to pick you up later. They'll take you to get your mother, then drive you both to the hospital I've arranged."
Someone to watch me. Someone to make sure I don't run.
"Okay," I said. "Whatever you think is best."
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his whole face changed—softened in a way it never did for me.
"I need to take this." He was already walking away. "Claire, hey—"
I sat there, listening to him laugh at something she said. Watching him transform into someone warm, someone real.
"Yeah, I can do dinner Tuesday. The place on Fifth? Perfect."
This man really knows how to have it all, I thought bitterly. The respectable fiancée. The secret mistress. The perfect life.