Chapter 233
Sophia's POV
I woke to silence.
The bed beside me was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Lucas was gone—had been for a while, judging by how cold the mattress felt when I pressed my palm against it.
For a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe without feeling like my ribs were caving in.
Then I saw the note.
It was propped against the lamp on the nightstand, folded once, my name written across the front in Lucas's sharp, precise handwriting. Next to it sat a black American Express card, gleaming dully in the morning light.
I reached for the note with shaking fingers.
---
[Fia,
Take the day. Rest. Explore the city if you want—the card has no limit. I'll pick you up at eight for dinner.
Don't make me come looking for you.
—L]
---
I read it twice, then a third time, searching for the trap hidden in those clipped sentences.
Don't make me come looking for you.
So this was freedom, Lucas-style. A leash long enough to let me think I could run, but with a chain at the end to yank me back if I tried.
I grabbed the card, shoved the note in the trash, and headed for the shower.
---
Paris in the daylight was almost enough to make me forget.
Almost.
I walked for hours, letting my feet carry me wherever they wanted. Past the Louvre with its glass pyramid glittering in the sun.
Along the Seine, where street artists sold paintings of the Eiffel Tower and lovers kissed on benches.
Through narrow streets lined with cafés that smelled like butter and coffee and something sweet I couldn't name.
I bought a croissant from a boulangerie and ate it on the steps of Sacré-Cœur, watching tourists take selfies and pigeons fight over crumbs.
The pastry was warm and flaky and melted on my tongue, and for a few minutes—just a few—I let myself pretend I was a normal girl on a normal trip, with nothing heavier on my mind than what to see next.
But the pretending only lasted so long.
By the time I made it to the Tuileries Garden, the sun was high and hot, and the lightness I'd felt earlier had started to curdle into something darker.
I found a bench in the shade and sat down, pulling my knees up to my chest.
The garden was full of people. Families with strollers. Couples holding hands. Old men reading newspapers. Everyone moving through their lives like it was easy, like the world wasn't designed to crush you the second you let your guard down.
I watched them, and I felt nothing.
Not envy. Not anger. Just... emptiness.
What was I even doing here? Playing tourist while my parents rotted in that house? While Lucas's baby grew inside me, a ticking clock I couldn't stop?
I pressed my forehead to my knees and closed my eyes.
You're going to get through this, I told myself. You always do.
But I didn't believe it anymore.
I slid off the bench and sank down onto the gravel path, my back against the bench's legs, my arms wrapped around my knees. People walked past me—some glanced, most didn't—and I didn't care. Let them think I was drunk or crazy or both. Let them think whatever they wanted.
I was so tired of pretending I wasn't falling apart.
"Excusez-moi, madame?"
I looked up.
A little boy stood in front of me, maybe four or five years old, with messy brown hair and a striped shirt. He was holding an ice cream cone—chocolate, half-melted and dripping onto his hand—and staring at me with the kind of solemn curiosity only kids could pull off.
"Pourquoi tu pleures?" he asked.
Why are you crying?
The French came back to me instantly, all those late nights in my dorm room with textbooks and audio lessons, teaching myself the language because I'd thought it would make me seem sophisticated. More than just another scholarship kid trying to fit in.
I hadn't even realized I was crying.
I wiped my face quickly, forcing a smile that felt like broken glass. "Je vais bien," I said softly. I'm okay.
He frowned, clearly not buying it, then held out the ice cream cone.
"Pour toi," he said firmly. For you.
I blinked at him, then at the cone, which was now more of a sticky mess than an actual dessert.
"Non, c'est le tien," I said, shaking my head. No, it's yours.
But he just pushed it closer, his little face so earnest it made my chest ache.
"Ça va mieux," he insisted. It will make you feel better.
And God help me, I believed him.
I took the cone with trembling fingers, and he beamed at me like I'd just given him a gift. Then his mother called from somewhere behind me, and he waved once before running off, leaving me sitting there with melted chocolate dripping onto my hand and tears streaming down my face.
I laughed—a choked, broken sound—and brought the cone to my lips.
It tasted like sugar and kindness and everything I didn't deserve.
But I ate it anyway.
---
By the time I made it to the restaurant Lucas had texted me about, the sun was setting, and I'd pulled myself back together.
I'd washed my face in a public restroom, reapplied the lipstick I'd bought with Lucas's black card, and practiced my blank expression in the mirror until I could look at myself without flinching.
You can do this, I told myself. One more night. Then you'll figure out the rest.
The restaurant was tucked into a quiet street in the Marais, all exposed brick and dim lighting and the kind of understated elegance that screamed money. I pushed open the door, and the hostess greeted me with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Do you have a reservation?"
"I'm meeting someone," I said. "Lucas Reynolds."
Her smile tightened. "Ah, yes. Right this way."
She led me through the dining room, past tables full of couples leaning close and whispering, past waiters carrying trays of wine and plates that looked like art.
And then I saw him.
Lucas sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, a glass of red wine in his hand. He looked up when I approached, and for a split second, something flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or surprise that I'd actually come back.
But I barely noticed.
Because sitting across from him, her perfectly manicured hand resting on the table like she owned it, was Claire.
Lucas's fiancée.
She turned when she heard my footsteps, and her smile was all teeth.
"Sophia," she said, her voice dripping with false warmth. "What a lovely surprise."
I stopped in my tracks, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Lucas's eyes met mine, and I saw it—the challenge, the dare, the silent question. What are you going to do now?
Claire tilted her head, her smile widening.
And then it hit me.
If Claire was here, if she was sitting at this table with Lucas like she belonged there, then maybe—maybe—I didn't have to be his dirty little secret anymore. In the days to come, he could finally let me go.
The thought was so intoxicating I almost laughed.
Claire stood, smoothing down her dress, and extended her hand like we were old friends.
"Good evening, Ms. Cruze," she said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp.
I stared at her hand, then at Lucas, then back at her.
And I forced myself to smile.
"Good evening."