Chapter 228
Sophia's POV
I guided my mother out of the exam room, one arm wrapped carefully around her waist.
She felt so fragile—like if I held on too tight, she might shatter.
The waiting area outside was quieter now, most of the earlier crowd gone. I spotted a bench near the windows and steered her toward it.
"Here, Mom. Sit."
She sank onto the hard plastic with a soft exhale, her hand pressed to her chest. I knelt in front of her, my knees hitting the cold floor, and took both her hands in mine.
"I'm sorry," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I'm so sorry I lied to you. About everything. About Lucas, about—" My voice cracked. "I should have told you the truth from the beginning."
"Sophia—"
"No, please. Let me finish." I gripped her hands tighter, feeling the thin bones beneath papery skin. "I've been lying to you for months. Making excuses, pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. And you've been suffering because of me."
"Stop." Her voice was gentle but firm. "Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault."
"But it is my fault. If I hadn't—"
"You didn't do anything wrong." She cupped my face with trembling hands, forcing me to meet her eyes. "Do you hear me? You didn't do anything wrong."
"They call me a mistress," I whispered. "That woman—Claire—she called me a homewrecker. Like I wanted this. Like I chose—"
"I know what she called you." My mother's eyes blazed with an anger I rarely saw in her. "And she's wrong. You're not a mistress. You're not a homewrecker. You're a prisoner, just like your father and me."
The word hung in the air between us. Prisoner.
"We didn't do anything wrong either," she continued, her breathing labored but her voice steady. "Your father and I—we were good people. We worked hard. We raised you right. We never cheated anyone or lied or stole." She paused, coughing. "The only mistake we made was agreeing to that engagement in the first place."
"Mom—"
"We thought it was a good match. The Reynolds family had money, connections, a good name. Lucas seemed like a decent young man." Her laugh was bitter. "We had no idea he'd turn into... this."
I thought of Lucas seven years ago, before his family's fall. The way he'd smiled at me across ballroom floors. The way he'd held my hand and talked about our future like it was something bright and certain.
And then I thought of the man he'd become. Cold. Calculating. Cruel.
"We never imagined he'd be the kind of person who'd hold a grudge like this," my mother said quietly. "Breaking an engagement isn't a crime, Sophia. It happens all the time. But Lucas—he took it as a personal betrayal."
"Because his family went bankrupt right after," I said. "He thinks we abandoned him when he needed us most."
"We did." She said it without shame. "And I'm not sorry for it. Your father and I had to think of you, of our own family. We couldn't afford to be dragged down with them."
"But we weren't the only ones who cut ties."
"No." She shook her head. "Half of New York did the same thing. So why—" Her voice broke. "Why are we the ones he's punishing? Why are we locked up in that house while everyone else gets to go on with their lives?"
Because I was the one he loved, I thought. Because I was the one who broke his heart.
I asked, "Mom, when Lucas's family went bankrupt—did you and Dad have anything to do with it? Did you know who was behind it?"
She blinked, startled. "What? No. Of course not."
"Are you sure? Because Lucas—he seems to think we were involved somehow."
"We weren't." She gripped my shoulders. "Sophia, I swear to you. We had no idea what happened to them or who was responsible. One day they were fine, and the next—" She shook her head. "It was like someone had decided to destroy them overnight. Accounts frozen, assets seized, criminal charges filed. We were just as shocked as everyone else."
"But Lucas doesn't believe that."
"Lucas wants someone to blame," she said. "And we're convenient targets."
I sat back on my heels, my mind racing. If my parents hadn't been involved in the Reynolds family's downfall, then who had? And why was Lucas so convinced we were responsible?
"I'm going to find out the truth," I said. "I'm going to figure out what really happened to his family. And when I do, I'll prove to him that you and Dad had nothing to do with it."
My mother's face crumpled. "Sophia, no. Don't—"
"I have to, Mom. It's the only way to get you out of there."
"We can handle it," she insisted. "Your father and I—we're managing. But you—" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't want you to suffer anymore. I don't want you making deals with that man, letting him use you—"
"I'm not making deals," I lied. "I'm just—"
"Don't lie to me again." Her eyes searched mine. "Promise me you won't sacrifice yourself for us. Promise me you'll get out while you still can."
I wanted to promise. God, I wanted to.
But I couldn't.
"Mom," I said softly. "Trust me. Please. I know what I'm doing. And I'm going to get you and Dad out of there. Soon. I promise."
She looked at me for a long moment, her expression a mix of hope and despair. Then she nodded, just once.
"I trust you," she whispered. "But be careful. Lucas isn't the boy you used to know. He's dangerous now."
"I know."
I stood, brushing off my knees, and was about to help her up when I noticed movement in my peripheral vision.
A man stood half-hidden behind one of the support columns near the nurses' station. He'd been there for a while, I realized—watching us.
When I glanced his way, he seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second before stepping forward.
It was Dr. Shaw.
He moved with an easy confidence, his white coat open over a crisp blue button-down and dark slacks.
Up close, I could see the details I'd missed before—the way his chestnut brown hair caught the light, the subtle laugh lines at the corners of his eyes that appeared when he smiled, the faint scar along his jawline that gave him a rugged edge despite the professional polish.
There was something almost boyish about the way he approached, like he'd been working up the courage to come over. His steps slowed as he got closer, and I caught the briefest flicker of something in his expression—nervousness, maybe? Or anticipation?
"Ms. Cruz," he said, his voice a touch warmer than strictly professional. "I wanted to catch you before you left."