Chapter 29 SOPHIA
The next morning…
The first thing I register is the quiet.
Not the thick, tense kind I’ve learned to fear —the kind that means he’s lurking, waiting; it's a different kind of quiet. Still. Heavy. No footsteps pacing outside my door. No keys jingling. No slamming doors or sudden bursts of rage.
I blink up at a ceiling I don’t recognize.
It’s smooth, ivory, and there’s a thin shaft of sunlight cutting across it from a half-open curtain.
The sheets under me smell faintly of soap and something warm, masculine.
My head is heavy, fuzzy around the edges, like I’ve been wrapped in cotton.
Xanax, I remember dimly. He gave me a pill. Said it would help me sleep.
He.
Raffael.
My heart lurches at the thought of his name, at the memory of his voice last night.
His words echo in my head. He said I could lock the door if I wanted.
I push myself up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in my body.
The same clothes from last night cling to me: a soft knit skirt, a pale sweater.
They’re clean, but I feel dirty inside them, like my skin still carries the fingerprints of the last three years.
Three years.
It hits me in pieces, the shouting, the keys in the lock, the sound of his boots in the hallway, the weight of his hands.
The way the walls of that room became my cage.
How I learned to keep my voice quiet, to take the blows without crying out, to make myself small enough to pass through his days unnoticed.
And now… now I’m here.
I glance around. The room is… beautiful. Ivory walls, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling pale light onto a bed that feels like a cloud. A dresser, a writing desk, a chair by the window. It’s too much. Too nice. Nice isn’t for me. Nice means there’s a price I’ll have to pay later.
I swing my legs to the floor, bare toes curling into the plush rug. From somewhere deeper in the house, I smell coffee. It's faint but luring. But the need to wash the last traces of him off my skin is overwhelming. I head toward the bathroom, and that’s when I see the closet door is ajar.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pull it open. The sight stops my breath cold.
It’s full.
Not just full, it's perfect. Dresses in fabrics I love, in colors that make my skin look warm, my eyes bright. Sweaters soft enough to sleep in. Coats I used to dream of wearing in the winter. Jeans that look like they’d fit without needing a belt.
Shoes—heels, boots, flats—all my size. All exactly my taste.
Like someone went into my mind and stole the contents of the girl I used to be, the girl who picked out her own clothes, and brought them here.
I touch a sleeve. My hand shakes. It’s impossible.
Roberto let me buy whatever I wanted, but I knew if I brought a skirt home that was too long, too short, or the wrong color, he would not only punish me, but make me return it like some disobedient child, standing there while the clerk processed the refund, my shame on display for strangers who didn’t know they were witnessing something far uglier than a bad fashion choice.
Whatever I picked, I always had him in mind.
But the things that hang here… they're all me.
I turn, scanning the room again, the heavy bed, the curtains, the way the sunlight falls on the floor.
It’s beautiful.
It’s a trap, my mind whispers.
My pulse is fast and uneven. I want to believe I’m safe, that this is Raffael’s house, that no one will drag me back. I’ve loved him for years, quietly, from a distance he never closed. But he never came for me, not until last night.
And even now, part of me can’t believe I'm really with him and not Roberto.
I grip the closet doorframe until my knuckles ache, grounding myself in the feel of the wood.
If this is real, if this is freedom… I don’t know what to do with it.
Because the truth is, I’m not sure I remember how to be free.
My fingers trail along the hangers, half-afraid they’ll disappear if I touch them too long. I pull out a soft sweater, the kind you want to bury your face in, and a pair of jeans that look like they’ll actually fit. When I spot the drawers built into the closet, I hesitate, then slide one open.
Underwear.
He bought me underwear.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. The thought of Raffael picking these out makes my stomach twist in ways I can’t name.
But when I lift a set—a deep wine-colored lace bra with matching panties—I realize none of them are the cheap, gaudy pieces Roberto used to shove into my hands, the ones meant to make me look like something for sale.
They’re not shapeless, cotton, old lady things either.
They’re… beautiful. Sexy, but understated.
Something I might have chosen myself, once.
I gather the clothes, clutching them to my chest, and first lock the door to the bedroom, then carry them into the bathroom.
The shower hisses to life, and steam fills the glass enclosure. I step in, and the first hit of hot water makes me flinch. My skin protests, my nerves are raw from years of bruises and worse. I stand there for a moment, letting the sting settle into a burn, then into something almost bearable.
It hurts—but in a way that feels different this time.
For three years, no matter how many showers I took, it never lasted. No matter how hard I scrubbed, he would find a way to sully me again before my skin was even dry. But here… here I’m alone. The door is locked. There’s no heavy tread of boots coming down the hall, no voice barking my name.
I let the water run over me, tilting my head back, eyes closed. My hands move slowly, methodically, over every inch of myself, like I can wash away not just the dirt, but the fingerprints. The bruises. The memories.
For the first time in years, I feel like I might actually get clean.
Like he can’t touch me anymore.
Like maybe… this time, I’m really free.
I towel off slowly, wrapping the thick cotton around me like armor. The new underwear feels strange against my skin, not in a bad way, just… foreign. The jeans slide on easily, the sweater even more so, soft and warm like a hug I didn’t know I needed.
I start to dry my hair, knowing it will take an hour to style it, and stare into the mirror.
I wasn't allowed to cut my hair. Roberto liked it long.
Raffael said you're free, a voice whispers.
A tempting voice. I stare into the mirror at the long tresses.
The hair Roberto used to love to wrap around his arm and wrist to pull my head just this way and that.
I watch the steam curl away in the mirror, and resentment overcomes me.
A resentment so deep, I want to throw it up.
I shudder. I don't think I can bear drying this hair one more time, even though part of me knows Roberto won't touch me ever again.
I don't know why Raffael came now, but I do know that whatever he has planned, I won't ever see Roberto again.
For a moment, I remember the Raffael who used to guard me, the one I bantered with.
The one I had such a crush on that turned into love.
Whatever is burning inside me now, I'm not sure it's love; I'm not sure I'm capable of it anymore.
As if they have their own will, my hands open drawers until I find a pair of scissors in one. I keep staring at myself in the mirror as my free hand grasps a large strand of hair, and the other moves the scissors toward it.
Snip.
Right at my shoulder.
Then again.
Snip.
And again.
Snip.
Long black locks tumble to the ground. The act of cutting my hair—such a simple act, really—feels like a rebellion all on its own. But that is nothing compared to the feeling of lightness on my neck and head now. I didn't even know how heavy my hair was until it's gone.
I keep staring into the mirror. My eyes are hollow, dark circles lie underneath, and bruises lie around my throat like a collar, but knowing this will be the last time I have to see them is like a heavy burden lifting off me.
I don't know for sure what Raffael wants from me. Why he saved me, again. But I know deep down that he won't hurt me.
Eventually, I move on to brushing my teeth until the taste of metal and old fear is gone.
When I’m done, I stare at my reflection for a long moment.
My hair is so much shorter. The ends are barely skimming my shoulders, and it feels loose and light.
No makeup to cover old and new bruises, either—no mask. Just me. I’m not sure I recognize her.
Back in the bedroom, I cross to the tall window. The view takes my breath. Deep forest, endless and dark, stretching into the horizon. It looks wild, untamed… like it’s daring me to step into it, to vanish. I imagine walking until the trees swallow me whole. Until no one could ever find me again.
My stomach growls, breaking the spell.
That’s when the smell hits me again. Coffee. Rich, dark, fresh-brewed. My mouth waters before I realize it. The hunger sharpens, curling in my gut, and the scent is a tether pulling me forward.
I glance at the door.
It’s locked. I’d turned the bolt myself before I went into the shower.
I hesitate, my hand hovers over it. Then, slowly, I turn the lock. The click sounds loud in the stillness. When I peek my head out, I find the hallway beyond is empty.
I step out, my bare feet are silent on the floor, and I move carefully, like each creak of the wood might wake something I don’t want to face. I follow the scent, down the hall, past shadowed doorways. It gets stronger with every step, warm and comforting in a way I’ve almost forgotten.
Somewhere ahead, I hear the sound of a low clink of porcelain. I keep going, drawn toward it like it’s the only real thing in this whole new world.
When I find the source, in the kitchen, a woman is standing by a stove stirring something. I shrink back, but her stiffening shoulders show that she already noticed me.