Chapter 92
"Coax me."
"What?" I was completely baffled, wondering if I'd misheard.
Coax Sebastian?
How?
I looked up and fell into Sebastian's unfathomable eyes, where a trace of barely-there amusement seemed to flicker and vanish.
Suddenly, inspiration struck.
I rose on my tiptoes, leaned in, and quickly pressed my lips against his cool ones.
A feather-light touch, there and gone in an instant.
The moment I did it, I was stunned by my own audacity, my heart threatening to leap from my throat.
He seemed frozen too, but then I watched the amusement in his eyes bloom like ink dropped into clear water, spreading slowly.
His grip on my hand tightened. "I'll let it slide this time."
Back in my room, I was still floating, like I was walking on clouds.
I threw myself onto the plush bed and pulled out my phone, wanting to scroll through something to distract myself.
On impulse, I opened Facebook—an app I hadn't used in ages—and clicked on my feed.
The moment the screen loaded, the smile on my face froze solid.
The most recent post was a group photo.
In the picture, Beauchamp, Monica, and I were all smiling brilliantly, intimately close.
It was taken just before my engagement to Beauchamp, when he'd brought me to meet his "sister" and I'd specially arranged a get-together to curry favor with him.
The caption below was written by my own hand: [The best Beau, the best Mona—may we stay close forever and ever.]
Nausea churned in my stomach.
My fingers stiffly scrolled down.
Post after post, all about Beauchamp.
[Picked out a new tie for Beau today. He looks so handsome in it.]
[Accompanying Beau to a business gala. I feel like Cinderella.]
[Beau says my Italian pasta is his favorite. I want to make it for him for the rest of my life.]
Seven whole years.
My Facebook was like a historical record, meticulously documenting that foolish, pathetic crush and the unbearable years of my marriage.
How could I have forgotten about this thing!
Since my rebirth, I'd been so focused on revenge, rebuilding my company, dealing with Sebastian—I'd completely forgotten this "evidence" of all my humiliation.
I couldn't bear it.
I started manually deleting them one by one.
Open, confirm, delete.
Each click felt like tearing open my own scabbed-over wounds, exposing the rotting flesh beneath to open air.
Too slow.
Too torturous.
After deleting a few dozen posts, I felt completely drained.
No.
I bolted upright in bed, chest heaving violently.
I'd already died once—was I really going to let these old memories torment me again?
A cold fury rose from deep within me, instantly extinguishing all the shame and humiliation.
I strode into the study and opened my laptop.
In the darkened room, only the screen's glow illuminated my expressionless face.
My fingers flew across the keyboard in a rapid staccato of clicks.
Writing scripts, simulating operations, gaining permissions, and executing deletion.
Throughout the entire process, I was eerily calm.
Three minutes later.
I hit the final enter key.
Code scrolled rapidly across the screen before stopping on a single line: [Task finished. All data has been cleared.]
I picked up my phone and reopened Facebook.
Empty.
The Sophia who'd spent seven years orbiting Beauchamp had been buried by my own hands in this moment.
Completely.
Relief washed over me.
Staring at that blank space, I suddenly felt a powerful urge.
I retrieved the bracelet I'd "shrined" from my jewelry box and fastened it around my wrist, then took a photo.
Slender wrist, glittering diamonds—a perfect complement.
I typed out a new caption and posted it.
[Thank you, Mr. Clifford. I love it.]
The accompanying image was the photo of the bracelet.
With that done, the last trace of gloom lifted from my heart.
The moment I set down my phone, Ariana called—so fast it was like she'd been timing it with a stopwatch.
"Sophia! What's going on! Have you finally come to your senses?"
On the other end, Ariana's voice brimmed with barely contained excitement. "See! I told you—who could resist someone as devastatingly gorgeous as Sebastian!"
I laughed at her enthusiasm, though my mind was crystal clear. "I'm just playing the role of a proper wife."
"What do you mean?" Ariana's voice sobered slightly.
"I mean I can give him everything the title of Mrs. Clifford entails—business support, social respectability, domestic care. Everything except feelings."
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Ariana, I don't want to exhaust myself loving someone like that again."
Silence on the other end.
She knew me too well—knew how much I'd invested in my last relationship, and how catastrophically it had ended.
After a long pause, she asked carefully, "What if... he wants a child? In elite marriages, isn't an heir really important? Would you give him that too?"
A child.
That word instantly punctured all my composure.
In my previous life, how many bitter medicines had I choked down trying to conceive? How many injections? How many times had I lain on that cold operating table? Those hope-filled waits that ended in disappointment again and again had nearly hollowed me out completely.
"No." My voice went cold, without a trace of hesitation. "If he absolutely needs an heir, he can find a surrogate. I have no objection. I'll even cover half the expenses."
Ariana gasped on the other end, speechless for a long moment.