Chapter 52

Chapter 52
Sophie stared at the address Andrew had sent, then climbed out of bed. After washing up and changing clothes, she headed downstairs.

Before leaving, Sophie forwarded the address to Charles with a message: if she wasn't done in an hour, come pick her up.

The five-star American steakhouse was completely empty except for the two of them.

Andrew had his assistant book out the entire dining hall.

He'd originally planned to reserve a French restaurant, but after asking Henry, he'd learned that Sophie's favorite cuisine was American. So Andrew rented out this upscale steakhouse's main floor instead.

Henry had also mentioned that Sophie preferred dining in open spaces without feeling confined.

So Andrew had all the servers dismissed, leaving no staff around. Just him and Sophie. Alone.

But as Sophie stared at the spread before her—Boston lobster bisque, charcoal-grilled ribeye with black pepper jus, Maine king crab legs, slow-smoked pork ribs, Caesar salad with Parmesan—she had zero appetite.

These were all Henry's favorites. Not hers.

She didn't like seafood, and she wasn't fond of overly rich, greasy meat.

Andrew noticed her hesitation. "Not to your taste, Ms. Rivera?"

Sophie cut a small piece of steak, tasted it, then set down her knife and fork. "No, it's fine. The food is excellent."

She reached for her wine glass and raised it toward Andrew. "Since today is Mr. Anderson's birthday, allow me to wish you a happy birthday."

Andrew didn't lift his glass.

He looked at her, his voice low. "I'm sorry, Ms. Rivera. I lied to you."

Sophie blinked. "Pardon?"

A trace of sadness crept into Andrew's voice. "Today isn't just my birthday. It's also Bella's birthday."

Sophie raised an eyebrow. "Bella?"

Who was that? His girlfriend?

She didn't ask outright—after all, she and Andrew were barely acquaintances.

But more importantly, Sophie reminded herself to stay alert. This man sitting across from her, playing the lonely birthday boy, was the same person who held an $88 million debt over her brother's head. The same man who'd used Henry to manipulate her into this dinner.

Whatever sob story he was spinning, she couldn't afford to let her guard down.

Andrew continued without prompting. "Bella was my dog. A sweet little terrier. She died last year."

"I don't have many friends. Bella was my companion for years. Losing her… it broke me."

He met Sophie's eyes. "I found Bella on my birthday. Her leg was broken. I took her to the vet, and she survived."

"After that, I kept her. For years. My birthday became her birthday too. I don't usually celebrate, but I always made sure Bella had a party."

"Ms. Rivera, I know it was sudden to invite you tonight. But I don't really have friends. Just people who want funding, investors looking for handouts. They're not real friends."

His gaze was earnest, almost vulnerable. "Ms. Rivera, do you mind having dinner with me? Keeping me company on my birthday?"

Sophie studied him carefully. The gentle smile, the sad eyes, the whole "lonely soul" routine—it was a masterful performance. But she knew better. This was a calculated move in whatever game he was playing.

Still, refusing outright would be unwise. Not when he had leverage.

"Of course not," she said smoothly. "It's an honor to celebrate with you, Mr. Anderson. Happy birthday."

She raised her glass again.

Andrew clinked his against hers. "Thank you."

After they drank, Andrew made another request. "Ms. Rivera, would you mind calling me Andrew?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Just Andrew. My first name."

Sophie's instincts sharpened. The sudden push for intimacy, the personal nickname—this was a power play. He was testing boundaries, seeing how far he could push.

She kept her expression neutral. "Mr. Anderson, that seems… overly familiar."

While Sophie was calculating her response, Andrew pressed on. "There's nothing wrong with it. Ms. Rivera, you came out tonight to celebrate my birthday. That makes us friends. And friends use first names."

He gestured toward a dish. "Sophia, try this one. Tell me what you think."

Sophia.

The casual intimacy of her first name felt like a trap closing around her.

She glanced down at the plate—another dish she didn't care for—then back up at Andrew.

"Mr.—"

"Sophia," Andrew interrupted gently. "Call me Andrew."

Sophie recognized the tactic. He wouldn't let this go until she complied. Every refusal would only drag this out longer.

Fine. If he wanted to play house, she'd play along—but on her terms.

"Andrew," she said evenly, "please—stop serving me. It's too much. I can't finish all this."

Andrew's face lit up with what looked like genuine delight. "Of course, Sophia. Eat what you like. Leave the rest."

Sophie took a deliberate bite, maintaining her composure. Beneath her polite smile, her mind raced. What was his endgame? The debt was already settled—or would be, once she paid him back. So why this elaborate charade?

Perhaps sensing her guardedness, Andrew set down his utensils after only a few bites.

He looked at her earnestly. "Sophia, do you not want to be friends with someone like me? Did I do something wrong? Please tell me. I'll change. I promise."

There it was—the guilt trip. Another manipulation tactic.

Sophie forced warmth into her smile. "No, no—you're fine. Really."

Andrew's expression brightened. "Really? So you will be my friend?"

Sophie took a deep breath, keeping her mask firmly in place. "Of course."

Whatever game Andrew Anderson was playing, she'd figure it out. But she wouldn't be anyone's pawn—not his, not her family's, not anyone's.

Andrew picked up his fork again, resuming his meal as if nothing had happened.

Sophie watched him carefully, every instinct on high alert.

Meanwhile, in the hotel lobby, the general manager was escorting two VIP guests.

He led them through the main floor toward the stairs.

As they passed the dining hall, one of the men stopped abruptly.

His gaze locked onto a familiar silhouette seated in the distance.

And the man sitting across from her.

His eyes turned ice-cold.

The woman behind him noticed. "Raymond, what are you looking at?"

Raymond ignored Harper's question. His frigid stare remained fixed on the figure in the distance.

He pulled out a phone he rarely used, powered it on, and opened a contact he knew by heart. He typed out a message and hit send.

Then he turned to the hotel manager, his voice sharp. "Postpone the paperwork. Get your boss down here. We're discussing the acquisition now. Name your price—my only condition is that you close for the night. Immediately."

The manager blinked. "Sir—"

Back at the table, Sophie's phone buzzed.

She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. An unknown number.

The message read:

[Hey, wifey. Long time no see. It's your husband. Enjoying your dinner?]