Chapter 1 Officially Married #2
Magnus rose more slowly but followed, his long strides unhurried.
Sophia picked up the pen the moment she reached the table. Without even glancing at the documents, she was about to sign—
When suddenly, Magnus grabbed her wrist.
She froze.
Her eyes lifted from the paper to his face in question.
His voice was cold and sharp. “Remember our deal. Don’t forget your place. If anyone finds out this marriage is only for three months—if the contract is exposed—you’ll pay one hundred million dollars.”
“I know,” she replied calmly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Graves. A deal is a deal.”
He released her wrist.
“Let’s get this done quickly,” she added. “I don’t have much time.”
She turned back to the papers and signed her name quickly. Then she slid the documents toward him, looking at him expectantly.
Magnus let out a faint breath—almost a sigh of satisfaction—before picking up the pen. He signed his name with steady strokes.
The moment he finished, Sophia snatched the papers from his hand and handed them to the officer with a bright smile.
The officer reviewed the documents, typed in the details, then looked up at them warmly.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You are now officially married.”
She handed each of them a copy of the marriage certificate.
“Thank you,” Sophia said.
Without waiting even a second, she turned around and rushed out of the office. The door swung shut behind her before Magnus could even take a breath.
He remained standing there, stunned, watching the place where she had just disappeared—shock and confusion written all over his face.
***
An hour later, Sophia pushed open the door to her house.
The place was eerily quiet.
She didn’t pause. Her feet carried her straight to the one room she had been desperate to reach.
She rushed inside.
Her grandmother lay on the bed, eyes closed, her body still.
“Grandma,” Sophia called softly as she hurried to her side. She shook her arm gently. “Grandma, look—I got it. I got the marriage certificate.”
She lifted the document with trembling hands, holding it up proudly, her smile fragile but hopeful.
There was no response.
Her smile slowly faded.
The hand holding the certificate slowly dropped. Her breath caught painfully in her throat.
No rise of the chest. No warmth. No movement.
Her body went rigid.
Sophia stared at the woman lying before her, dread creeping in inch by inch. Then reality crashed down on her.
She grabbed her grandmother’s arm.
Cold.
She leaned closer, her breath hitching. “Grandma?” she called again, louder this time.
Silence answered her.
Sophia’s hands began to tremble. She reached out and grabbed her grandmother’s arms, shaking her desperately.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she sobbed brokenly. “Didn’t you want me to marry Magnus? So I’d be safe after you were gone?”
Her tears fell freely now, soaking the paper in her hands. She clutched the certificate tighter.
“See? It’s done. I got married—just like you wanted,” she cried. “Grandma… please wake up.”
She tried to press the marriage certificate into Mila Knight’s unmoving hands.
There was no reaction.
Sophia collapsed forward, sobbing uncontrollably. Her cries echoed through the empty house—loud, broken, and desperate.
***
Sophia stepped out of the church just as the sun began to set, the sky dimming into muted shades of gray and gold.
She was dressed in a simple black funeral dress, the fabric falling just below her knees. The cut was modest, long sleeves hugging her arms, the neckline high and restrained. No jewelry adorned her—only a thin black ribbon tied at her wrist, worn and slightly frayed.
The funeral had ended. The mourners were gone. Only a few people lingered in the distance.
Sophia was the last one to walk out.
As she descended the steps, the hem of her dress stirred in the evening breeze, and a well-dressed man stepped forward, blocking her path.
“Miss King?” he asked gently.
She lifted her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely.
“Thank you,” Sophia replied quietly. “And you are…?”
The man extended his hand. “Peter Ferguson. I’m your grandmother’s lawyer.”
“Lawyer?” Sophia echoed, confusion flickering across her face.
He nodded and handed her a file. “Your grandmother left you her thirty percent stake in Prestige Wardrobe.”
Sophia froze.
“She held these shares in her own name,” Peter continued. “Everything else—your mother’s assets—was transferred to your father after her passing. But this portion remained with Mrs. Knight. She specifically requested that you inherit it.”
Sophia’s fingers trembled as she took the file.
She had known her grandmother owned part of the company—but not how much. And she had never cared.
Mila was all she had left after her mother died. Now she was gone too.
Her vision blurred.
“Thank you,” she said softly, clutching the file to her chest.
But just as she took the file—
It was snatched from her hands.
Sophia’s head snapped up.
Her father stood in front of her.
Arthur King flipped through the documents quickly, his eyes lighting up as he read. Then he smiled—pleased.
“This is good,” he said. “Joseph and Curtis have been wanting more shares invested back into the business. With production slowing down and material shortages lately, this is exactly what we need.”
He looked at her approvingly. “Curtis said with this share, he can bring in more investors and expand the company.”
Sophia stared at her father.
Then at the file in his hand.
Then back at him.
“Dad,” she said quietly, “you already have everything. The business Mom left is entirely in your hands. You’re not lacking anything.”
“So what?” Curtis’s voice cut in sharply as he stepped forward, Joseph coming to stand beside him.
Arthur King stood between his two brothers. He was shorter than both of them, a thick mustache shadowing his upper lip, his face already hardened with irritation. Curtis and Joseph, taller and clean-shaven, stood confidently at his sides.
Arthur was the eldest. After Sophia’s mother died, he had clung to his brothers for support. He wanted to give Sophia a good life.
But somewhere along the way, business replaced fatherhood.
Work replaced presence.
Curtis and Joseph stayed by his side constantly, pushing him deeper into expansion plans, investments, meetings—convincing him they were helping. And as Arthur listened to them more and more, Sophia slowly disappeared from his priorities.
With Curtis and Joseph constantly whispering about profits, growth, and control, things only grew worse.
Sophia still remembered when things were different.
When her father never missed her birthday.
When they were once a happy family of three.
Then her mother got cancer.
Six months later, she was gone.
Arthur, who had never run a company on his own, who had always worked under his wife as her helping hand, was suddenly forced to shoulder everything. That was when Curtis and Joseph came back from their cities, stepping into the business—until they slowly became decision-makers.
And Arthur did whatever they said.
Sophia watched it happen.
She watched her father stop coming home.
And when he did, he never remembered what day it was.
After her mother died, Sophia had grown up in her grandmother’s arms.
Not her father’s.
Hearing Sophia’s words now, Arthur’s face darkened completely.
“So what if I already have the business?” he snapped. “I need to expand it. Curtis said this share is necessary to increase production.”
“And you believe him?” Sophia shot back.
Her eyes burned as she clenched her fists. “How much do you actually know about the business, Dad? You already own almost all the business. Isn’t that enough to run a company?”
Her voice rose, trembling with years of buried resentment.
“Or are you, Uncle Joseph, and Uncle Curtis such bad businessmen that you need the inheritance that grandmother left me just to survive?” she demanded. “If that’s the case, maybe you shouldn’t be running a company at all. Maybe you should shut it down.”
“Sophia!” Arthur barked, anger flashing in his eyes. “Is it really that hard for you to be a good daughter? My brothers don’t want anything bad for me—or you! They care about us!”
“If they care so much,” Sophia said coldly, “then let me keep what’s mine.”
She reached out and snatched the file from Arthur’s hand.
“This is what Grandma wanted. And you should respect that.”
“How can you do this?” Arthur snapped.
“Look at her!” Joseph snapped, his face twisted in fury. “So ungrateful!”
Curtis stepped forward, trying to snatch the file from her hands.
Sophia jerked away, pulling it to her chest. Without another word, she turned and stormed off, heels striking sharply against the ground.
Arthur stood frozen.
Curtis and Joseph seethed behind him.
Peter quietly slipped away before any of them noticed—leaving the family war to burn on its own.
Unnoticed by anyone, Magnus stood near his car, watching the entire scene unfold. His eyes followed Sophia as her father and his brothers bickered over the file, the frustration and indignity clear on her face.
“How can her father treat her like this?” he muttered under his breath, frowning. “Is this the kind of life she’s been living all this time?”
His face twisted with distaste and disbelief. For a long moment, he just stood there, silent, before finally walking toward the church to pay his respects to Mila.
***
Later that evening, Sophia stepped out of the house with a suitcase rolling behind her. The wheels clicked softly against the stone path, sharp in the quiet night. She had already changed out of her funeral clothes.
In its place was a fitted leather short skirt hugging her legs and a simple white T-shirt tucked in neatly. A pair of sleek sunglasses hid her eyes even though the sun had long set, the dark lenses acting more like armor than an accessory.
She paused at the front steps, fingers tightening around the suitcase handle for a brief second.
She pulled the sunglasses up slightly, casting one last glance at the house behind her that now felt cold, suffocating. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she let out a slow breath and slid the glasses back into place.
Without looking back again, she dragged the suitcase down the steps. As she reached the front door, Timothy—Magnus’s secretary—rushed toward her. He had been waiting near the Mercedes-Benz, hands folded respectfully behind his back.
“Mrs. Graves,” he reached for her suitcase. “Let me help you. Mr. Graves sent me to pick you up.”
Sophia gave him a small smile. “No need. I have my own ride.”
She strode toward the sleek red Chevrolet Corvette parked at the curb, the wheels clicking softly against the pavement as she reached it.
Lifting her suitcase, she shoved it into the back, the trunk thudding shut before she rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat.
The door slammed. A second later, the engine roared to life beneath her hands.
Within moments, the Corvette tore down the street. Timothy could only stand there in stunned silence, blinking as the red blur disappeared.
The Corvette soon pulled up in front of a massive mansion, the clean nameplate at the entrance reading: Magnus.
She stepped out of the car, rounded to the back, and popped the trunk. Gripping the handle of her suitcase, she tugged it free and set it down beside her, the wheels clicking softly against the pavement.
Several maids were already stationed at the entrance, waiting for her arrival.
One whispered to another, “Isn’t that the woman Mr. Graves married? But I heard it was a forced marriage—something about her grandmother’s last wish.”
“Yeah,” another said. “I don’t think it’s going to last. Force marriages never do.”
Dahlia, the head maid, folded her arms over her plain uniform, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun. Her sharp eyes and thin lips gave her an air of superiority that made her look older than she was. She surveyed Sophia with open disdain, and her voice, quiet but cutting, carried to the others:
“Don’t take her seriously. She’s not going to be our future boss. Mr. Graves may have married her, but there’s no connection between them. There’s no reason to treat her like she’s special.”
“Wait,” the first maid hissed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She’s coming—hush.”
Dahlia didn’t budge. She kept her arms crossed, her expression cold, as Sophia stepped through the doors and entered the mansion.
All the maids greeted her, “Good evening, Mrs. Graves.”
Dahlia muttered reluctantly, her voice low and grim, “Good evening, Mrs. Graves.”
Sophia removed her sunglasses, letting her eyes sweep over all the maids. A small, polite smile curved her lips. “Good evening,” she said softly. “Where is my room?”
“It’s upstairs, Mrs. Graves,” a maid replied. “It’s the very first room. The only bedroom upstairs, actually. The other rooms are living areas—couches, study, common spaces for Mr. Graves.”
Sophia gave a short nod. “Thank you.”
She turned and headed toward the stairs, dragging her suitcase behind her. One of the maids stepped forward to help, but Dahlia grabbed her arm and shot her a glare, stopping her in her tracks. Sophia didn’t comment on it. She simply continued pulling the suitcase up the stairs herself.
But then Dahlia suddenly stepped into her path.
Standing right in front of her, Dahlia folded her arms and said coldly, her voice arrogant and dismissive, “I won’t be able to cook today. You came on such short notice. I don’t have time.”
Sophia paused.
She lifted her eyes and slowly looked Dahlia up and down, her gaze calm, measured. “That’s fine.”
Without another word, she stepped around Dahlia and continued upstairs with her suitcase.
Dahlia remained standing there, watching her back, lips curling into a smug smile.