Chapter 8 I’ll End This Marriage
Sophia pulled open the drawers at Centurian Hall one by one, the wood scraping softly in the quiet office. Files, old contracts, notes from years of experience in the industry—she gathered them all with steady hands, stacking them into a neat pile.
Her fingers were cold, almost numb.
She slid everything into a file and placed it carefully on the desk.
The computer screen in front of her glowed in the dim light, the website of the Halo London Auction Hall still open.
Lines of information blurred before her eyes as she checked whether she needed to update anything on her profile before the transfer.
Her jaw was tight. Her face expressionless.
She kept arranging things on her desk, moving with stiff, mechanical motions, as if keeping busy was the only way to stop her thoughts.
Just then, her office door opened.
Emma stepped inside.
The sudden entrance made Sophia’s fingers pause for a fraction of a second before she continued again.
The click of Emma’s heels softened when she noticed the tension in the room. Her eyes moved from the bag near the desk, to the file in Sophia’s hands, and finally to Sophia’s face.
Emma’s brows drew together as she walked closer. “Sophia… are you sure you want to move to London?”
“I am,” Sophia answered immediately.
Her voice didn’t shake. It was flat, almost calm.
She flipped through the papers in the file, the crisp sound loud in the silence.
“Didn’t you say you needed time to think about it?” Emma asked softly. “Did something happen?”
Sophia’s movements stopped.
The silence stretched.
Slowly, she lifted her head and looked at Emma. Her eyes were calm, but something inside them had cracked.
“It’s Magnus," she said. Her voice was flat, almost detached. “When he came home last night… there was lipstick on his neck.”
Emma froze.
“What?” Her eyes widened, shock flashing across her face. “Did he admit he slept with Celia?”
“I didn’t ask.” Sophia shook her head lightly.
She looked away, lips pressed together, the tension in her jaw betraying the storm inside.
“But the more I think about it,” she continued, her voice roughening, “the angrier I get. I know this is a contract marriage… but I thought— I thought we were making progress. I thought he cared about me. That maybe… maybe our relationship was becoming real. That he had feelings for me.”
A soft, broken laugh escaped her.
“But after what I saw yesterday…” Her voice faltered, thin and raw. “I was wrong.”
Her breath hitched. Fingers curled into her palms as if the memory could still crush her. “That lipstick on his neck… it destroyed every stupid little hope I had.”
She drew in a sharp breath, eyes glistening.
“I can’t pretend anymore. It is what it is. I can’t act like I didn’t see it. I can’t lie to myself.”
Her gaze found Emma’s, steady but heavy.
“So I want to leave. There’s nothing left for me here. I’m going to London.”
Emma’s heart ached at the calm acceptance in her voice. She reached out and squeezed Sophia’s arm gently.
“You’ll find someone better,” she said firmly. “You deserve someone who truly loves you.”
Before Sophia could respond, Emma’s phone buzzed sharply, slicing through the quiet room.
The sudden sound made them both flinch, eyes dropping to the glowing screen.
Emma frowned, swiping to unlock it. “So many notifications…” she muttered, scrolling quickly. Confusion flickered across her face, then gave way to disbelief.
Slowly, she tapped one open. “Oh my God…”
Her face went pale, color draining like water from porcelain.
“…Sophia,” she whispered, voice trembling.
She held the phone toward her. The moment Sophia’s eyes landed on the screen, the world seemed to pause—silent, heavy, and impossibly still.
On the screen were photos from Hotel du Lac. Photos of Magnus and Celia.
Magnus was sitting on the couch. Celia behind him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her body pressed close, her face near his neck.
Sophia took the phone from Emma’s hand.
Her fingers were steady. Only her pulse betrayed her.
The headline stared back at her.
“Mr. Magnus Graves spotted in a private moment with Ms. Celia Thompson, daughter of prominent businessman Jerry Thompson. Sources close to the Graves family hint that wedding bells may not be far off. This is the first publicly confirmed romance linked to the notoriously elusive heir of Empire Group.”
Sophia’s fingers tightened around the phone.
Her face turned pale, but her eyes… her eyes went completely still.
Her heart climbed into her throat as she stared at the photographs. The room felt smaller. Colder. Her breathing slowed, but her chest burned as if something heavy was pressing down on it.
A faint tremor ran through her fingers.
Slowly, she placed the phone back on the table. The sound of it touching the surface was soft, but it felt loud in the suffocating silence. She slid it toward Emma without looking away.
When their eyes finally met, Sophia finally spoke.
“He’s sleeping with Celia,” she said quietly. “He’s in a relationship with her… then what am I to him?”
A bitter smile curved on her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. There was so much sadness there that it almost felt suffocating.
They had never treated their marriage as real. There were no promises, no confessions.
But the way he looked at her… the way he held her… the way he stayed close—
It had meant something. At least, she thought it did.
Her chest burned.
Every inch of her body felt like it was caught between anger and heartbreak.
The more she thought about Magnus, the more anger flooded her veins. It wasn’t just betrayal.
It was humiliation.
***
Magnus stepped out of the building without looking back. The glass doors closed behind him with a muted hiss as winter air hit his face.
The streetlights carved sharp shadows across his cold expression as he slid his hands into the pockets of his winter coat and strode toward the waiting car.
He slipped into the back seat without a word. The door closed with a muted thud, sealing him inside. The faint scent of leather and his cologne lingered in the quiet space.
Timothy started the engine. The car eased into the night traffic, city lights sliding past the tinted windows in blurred streaks of gold and white.
City lights blurred past the tinted windows.
Halfway through the drive, Timothy glanced at Magnus through the rearview mirror.
“Mr. Graves,” he said quietly, “the news regarding you and Miss Thompson is trending across all major news channels.”
He paused briefly.
“She released the photographs taken at the hotel that night. Every network and social media platform is circulating them without context. They’re even referring to her as your future wife. Shall I instruct legal to have the coverage removed?”
The faint glow of the streetlights flashed across Magnus’s face. His head was tilted back against the seat, eyes closed, but his jaw flexed hard.
He was exhausted.
He hadn’t gone home since last night.
After scrubbing at his throat in the bathroom until his skin burned, trying to erase the smear of lipstick and the fury clawing beneath it, he had collapsed onto the office couch.
He’d managed barely two hours of sleep before forcing himself upright and working straight through the day.
His eyes burned. His temples throbbed. His body felt heavy, yet restless.
Right before leaving the office, he had seen the headlines. The photographs.
And imagined Sophia seeing them too.
A dark expression passed over his features.
He opened his eyes slowly and looked at Timothy in the mirror.
“No need,” he said.
Flat. Dismissive.
Timothy hesitated. “Sir… you’re playing with fire.”
Magnus didn’t respond.
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it grew colder. He turned his head toward the window, staring at the passing city lights.
He wanted to see her reaction to that news.
If she was jealous. If she really felt something.
Minutes later, the car pulled into the driveway of his house.
Magnus stepped out immediately, not waiting for Timothy to open the door. His shoes struck the marble steps sharply as he entered the house.
The front door closed behind him with a dull thud, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. He didn’t glance toward the living room. He went straight upstairs. The stairs creaked beneath his heavy steps as he climbed them two at a time, each step sharp and impatient.
His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near his temple. He loosened his tie as he climbed.
As he reached the bedroom, he pushed the door open and entered.
The room was dim. Silent.
His eyes swept across the room, scanning every corner.
Empty.
There was no sign of Sophia.
He stood there for a moment, unmoving. Then he inhaled slowly, deeply, as if trying to control something rising inside him. His face hardened. The softness that had lingered earlier completely disappeared.
He walked farther into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, fingers interlocked so hard his knuckles turned pale.
Then, he waited.
Minutes stretched into hours. Night fell completely, darkness pressing against the windows. The clock ticked past nine. Then ten.
Each second scraped against his nerves.
Still no sign of her.
The longer he waited, the darker his expression became. His patience thinned.
He pulled out his phone and opened the news again.
The photographs filled the screen — him and Celia, cropped close, the headlines bold and provocative. The comments were still pouring in.
His jaw flexed. His nostrils flared.
Yet from Sophia, there was nothing.
No call. No message.
His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
“Where the hell are you…” he muttered under his breath.
Another ten minutes passed.
Nothing.
His patience snapped.