Chapter 14
Sophia's POV
After hanging up with David, I glanced out the passenger window one more time. The black sedan was still there, its headlights now dark, but something about its positioning made my skin crawl.
Who would be watching me? The thought sent a chill down my spine. I'm nobody. Just another struggling medical student from a family that's hemorrhaging money. What could I possibly have that anyone would want?
But the feeling persisted as I pulled out of the gas station, that invisible weight of eyes tracking my every movement. I checked my rearview mirror obsessively during the drive home, looking for that black sedan or any other sign that I was being followed. The streets seemed normal enough—late evening traffic, people heading home from work or dinner, the usual rhythm of the city.
Still, I couldn't shake the paranoia that had settled over me like a second skin.
By the time I reached our house in the Upper East Side, my hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. I sat in the driveway for several long minutes, scanning the street for anything out of place.
Nothing. Just the quiet residential street I'd grown up on, lined with brownstones and the occasional luxury car.
You're being ridiculous, I told myself firmly. You're stressed and paranoid and seeing threats where none exist.
The house was quieter than usual when I stepped inside. No sounds of my father pacing in his study, no phone conversations in urgent Hebrew filtering through the walls. Just silence, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
I found my father in the living room, sitting in his favorite leather armchair with a glass of what looked like expensive whiskey. The fireplace was lit, casting dancing shadows across his face, and for the first time in weeks, he looked... relaxed. Almost content.
The sight stopped me cold.
This was not the man who'd been pacing frantically just yesterday, desperately trying to find Isabella or figure out how to salvage the Romano alliance. This wasn't the stressed, haggard father who'd been aging years by the day as our family's financial situation grew more dire.
"You're home late," he said without looking up from his whiskey.
"I was... out. Thinking." I remained standing in the doorway, suddenly reluctant to enter the room fully. Something about his demeanor set off every warning bell I possessed.
"Thinking about what?"
"About everything that's happened. About Alfonso. About... choices."
He took a slow sip of his drink, still not meeting my eyes. "And what conclusions did you reach?"
That you're a monster for using Alfonso as leverage. That I never really knew you at all. That somehow, against all odds, I managed to escape the trap you set for me.
"That this family is more complicated than I ever realized," I said instead.
Finally, he looked at me, and the satisfaction in his eyes made my stomach clench with dread.
"Indeed it is, Sophia. Indeed it is."
The next morning, I woke with a splitting headache and the distinct feeling that I'd dreamed about being watched. Fragments of nightmares lingered—dark figures at windows, cars following me through empty streets, the sensation of invisible eyes tracking my every movement.
I stumbled downstairs to find my father already seated at the breakfast table, reading the Financial Times and looking more cheerful than I'd seen him in months. He was even humming under his breath, some old Hebrew melody from my childhood.
"Good morning, Sophia," he said pleasantly, not looking up from his newspaper. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough." I poured myself coffee with shaking hands, my father's good mood making me increasingly nervous. "You seem... happy this morning."
"I am happy. In fact, I have some wonderful news to share with you."
I sat down across from him, my coffee mug trembling slightly in my grip. "What kind of news?"
He folded his newspaper with deliberate precision and smiled at me.
"Your brother will receive the best medical care available, starting immediately. The most advanced treatments, the most skilled specialists, the most cutting-edge experimental procedures. Money will be no object."
The coffee turned to ash in my mouth. "What are you talking about?"
"And you, my dear daughter, need only focus on preparing for your wedding to Vito Romano. I was thinking we could have the ceremony within the week—no need for a long engagement when both families are so eager to formalize the alliance."
The mug slipped from my nerveless fingers, hitting the table with a sharp crack. Coffee splashed across the white tablecloth, dark stains spreading like blood.
"That's impossible," I whispered. "I saw him yesterday. I spoke with him. He agreed to cancel the engagement."
My father's smile widened. "Did he?"
"Yes! He said he wouldn't force me into marriage against my will. He said the arrangement could be dissolved. Emily was there—she heard the whole conversation."
"Emily," my father repeated thoughtfully. "Emily Whitman, you mean? Nicholas Whitman's pregnant wife?"
The casual way he said their names, like he knew exactly who they were, sent ice water through my veins.
"How do you—"
"I received a very interesting phone call yesterday afternoon," he continued, ignoring my question. "From the Romano family. Vito himself, actually. He said he'd had the pleasure of meeting you yesterday, and that he was quite... satisfied with what he'd seen."
No. No, this isn't possible.
"You're lying," I said desperately. "He told me the engagement was off. He was understanding, he was kind—"
"Oh, I'm sure he was very kind," my father agreed. "Charming, even. But the engagement is very much still on, Sophia. In fact, Mr. Romano specifically requested that the wedding be moved up. He seemed quite eager to formalize the arrangement."
The room tilted sideways. I gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling out of my chair as the full scope of what had happened crashed down on me.
He played me.
"This is insane," I said, my voice rising. "You can't seriously expect me to marry someone who manipulated me like that!"
"On the contrary," my father replied calmly. "It shows he's exactly the kind of man you should marry. Intelligent, strategic, capable of reading people and situations. These are valuable qualities in a husband, Sophia."
"They're the qualities of a psychopath!"
"They're the qualities of a survivor. And in the world you're about to enter, survival skills are essential."
I stared at him across the breakfast table, this man who'd raised me, who'd taught me to ride a bike and helped me with homework. When had he become this cold, calculating stranger who could discuss selling his daughter with such casual indifference?
"I won't do it," I said finally. "I don't care what games he played yesterday. I won't marry him."
My father's smile never wavered. "Mr. Romano was quite confident that you would change your mind. In fact, he seemed certain that you would come to him willingly, eager to proceed with the wedding."
"He's delusional if he thinks—"
"Is he?" My father leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Tell me, Sophia, what do you think would happen if a man like Vito Romano truly wanted something? If he decided he was going to have it, regardless of anyone else's wishes?"
The coffee stains on the tablecloth seemed to spread wider as I watched, dark tendrils reaching toward me like grasping fingers.
"He wouldn't," I said weakly. "He said he wouldn't force me—"
"He won't need to force you," my father said with absolute certainty. "You're going to go to him on your own. You're going to beg him to marry you. And you're going to do it because you have no other choice."
"What do you mean?" I demanded.