Where am I?
Chapter 28
SOPHIA
Something feels different.
Actually, everything feels different. And it smells... wrong. Not bad, just suspiciously wholesome. Like a mix of light florals, crisp air, and expensive laundry detergent.
I roll over, chasing the last fading edge of sleep, and bury my face into a pillow that is unreasonably, almost offensively soft.
My head is pounding like a bass amp at a rock concert.
Through the haze of a killer migraine, I dream about a young woman in a crisp black and white uniform.
She is standing right beside my bed, holding a silver tray, and smiling at me like a creepy stepford wife.
I blink.
The dream doesn't dissolve.
She takes a step closer. "Miss," she says smoothly.
I rub my face with the back of my hand, waiting for reality to kick in. She stays exactly where she is.
"Mister Calloway asked me to bring breakfast to your room," she says, her tone bright and pleasant. "Your aunt has already arrived, and he assumed you would want to freshen up before coming downstairs."
Oh, great. The dream just mutated into a nightmare.
"Go away," I groan into the mattress, pulling the fluffy pillow over my face. Why the hell is he haunting my dreams now? Hasn't he ruined enough of my life?
Driven by a sudden spike of irritation, I fling my arm out to the side. My fingers don't hit empty air. They connect with something cold, solid, and entirely, undeniably real.
"OH MY GOSH!"
The undignified shriek escapes me before I can stop it. I scramble backward across the mattress like a startled cat, tumbling right off the other side. I land horribly on my feet, barely staying upright by gripping the wooden bedpost for dear life.
"Everything is alright, Miss," the maid says, completely unfazed.
I can't even focus on her. The sudden, chaotic movement makes a galaxy of tiny stars explode in front of my eyes.
I squeeze them shut, pressing a hand against my forehead where my brain is staging a violent coup.
When I finally look up, my jaw drops. High ceilings.
Heavy, suffocating silk curtains. Priceless artwork on the walls.
What in Jesus' name happened last night?
"Where... where am I?" I demand, my voice bordering on hysterical.
"Calloway Mansion," she replies, holding out a plate of neatly sliced fruit.
My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy.
No. No, no, no.
As if on cue, I look down at myself, and my heart completely stops. I'm not wearing my dress. Where is my dress? Panic hits me like a wave. I frantically rip the blankets aside, tossing pillows onto the floor as if the fabric is hiding my clothes.
Instead of my outfit, I am drowning in an oversized, pitch-black nightshirt.
"Who changed my clothes?!" My voice cracks, coming out way louder and sharper than intended. "What is happening here? What is going on..."
I storm toward the window in four unsteady, dizzy steps and yank the heavy curtains open in one violent movement.
The morning sunlight hits my eyes like a physical punch.
"Son of a..." I recoil, screwing my eyes shut and spinning back toward the room.
"Miss, Lorenzo Calloway..." the maid begins again.
"NO!" I shout. I don't even let her finish the sentence. The word flies out of my mouth before my brain can even process it. I watch her expression shift into mild surprise, but the adrenaline is pumping too hard for me to care. "This is not happening. I am not here."
I dart past her, pull the heavy bedroom door open, and burst into the grand corridor. I don't have a plan. My only goal is to run until I hit an exit.
"Oh, are we in a hurry?"
A pair of strong hands suddenly clamp down on my arms.
"Let go of me!" I scream, twisting violently. Before I can draw breath to shout again, I am firmly pushed right back into the room, and the door slams shut.
"Don't fucking touch me!" I yell, shoving my captor away with everything I've got.
I spin around, pressing my back against the nearest heavy dresser, my chest heaving.
And there he is. Lorenzo leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.
His posture is the definition of casual arrogance a man completely comfortable in his own skin, finding my discomfort more informative than alarming.
Hands casually shoved into his pockets. Head to toe in black. His dark hair is slightly messy yet annoyingly, effortlessly perfect. And the burning amusement in his dark eyes tells me he knows exactly what he's doing.
Lorenzo glances at the maid and tilts his head slightly. "That will be all, thank you."
I watch the woman bow her head and slide past him. In my head, I am screaming at her to call the police, to call the FBI, to call anyone. But my vocal cords are paralyzed. The door clicks shut with a terrifyingly final sound.
Shit. Say something, Sophia! Do something!
And just like that, it's just the two of us. Enemy territory.
Desperate, my hand frantically searches the surface of the dresser behind me. My fingers wrap around a heavy, abstract sculptural object. I have no idea what it is, some kind of modern art monstrosity but it's heavy. I raise it in front of me like a club, aiming it directly at him.
"Come one step closer and I swear to God"
"And you'll what, Sophia?" he asks smoothly and takes a step. Not toward me, but sideways, toward the bed. He sits down on the edge of the mattress. He reaches over to the silver tray, plucks a grape from the bowl, and pops it into his mouth.
I glare at the heavy object in my hands. "I'm going to smash your face in with this thing," I threaten, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
Lorenzo slowly turns his gaze to me. Then, he looks at the weapon.
"Just so you know," he says, his voice a low, teasing purr, "that's a sixteenth-century antique."
I lower it approximately two centimeters. Before I glare at him. Then, I raise it right back up.
"Why am I here?" I demand. "Why am I wearing this?" I gesture aggressively at the black nightshirt. "And why can't I remember a single thing about last night?"
The last question comes out raw and a little too loud. For a split second, Lorenzo's left eyebrow twitches upward just a fraction of a millimeter before his face settles back into that unreadable mask.
The room suddenly feels so much colder and i wait for him to say something.
"We had sex"
"What ? "I scream out loud and actually drop the sculpture.But by his sudden loughter my heart beat comes back to live.
He's joking ,he really has the obesity to make a joke?
"I knew it "I bark out "you knwo why ? "
"Tell me"
"Because I would rather get hit by a car then have sex with you "I pronouns the last word the same why he did with a slow voice so he won't miss them.
He grin walking to me his tall body suddenly taking in all my space makig the room seem small out of a sudden.I can fell the heat from his body and lift my head slight to lokk him in his eys"is that so "it was asl lst a whisper and i dint dare ti break ways when he loses his head slightly
"Yes"I manage to say fellig his sent in my nose
"I also don't seep with virgins"he grins
"I'm not "I beginn but stopp imidiatly because it's non of his dam Buissnes"Go to hell "I hiss fellig my body burnig and my fist hurtig .
Be kind
"Allredy there stalker "his voic darken as his eys turning to an even darker shape.
"Stopp staring at my lips dickhead"I hiss breaking the finally distance between us.
"Then stop biting them like you are scared"he barks back walking to the window, facing with his back to me.
"You wer trunk and cried like a baby because you didn't want to go to a hospital and i brought you her to be checked by my doctor "he suddenly explains making me processed the sudden change of subject.
I stare at him.
I stare at him for a long, heavy beat, waiting for the punchline.
"That," I say, my voice trembling with pure venom, "is the most pathetic, obvious lie anyone has ever told me in my entire life."
"why would you car "
He hate me ,I bet he would have enjoyed me getting trunk and push me iver the weather ti get rid if me .
"I don't "he turns ariund "I ccoulden care less actually "I watch him pull somthing out if his pocket "Take two of those," he commands quietly
"Then get changed and come downstairs."
"You are unbelievable " I whisper. It's mostly to myself.
My legs are doing something deeply unreliable, turning to water beneath me. A suffocating heat builds behind my eyes—a slow, disorienting pressure that makes the entire bedroom tilt whenever I move my head too fast.
"Sophia—"
"NO!" I snap, thrusting my palm out in front of me. "Don't you dare come near me."
I take another frantic step back, but my knees choose that exact second to stop cooperating. I drop. My shoulder clips the wall as I slide down, landing hard on the cold floor. I pull my knees tightly against my chest, staring blindly as the edges of the room blur into a sickening swirl.
Why am I here?
What did he do to me?
What did I do?
Why is my mind a total, terrifying blank?
The questions hit me all at once, suffocating and sharp, a crashing wave I can't breathe through. My chest tightens. Air won't go in. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to force the panic back down.
"Sophia."
His voice isn't across the room anymore. It's right there.
I drop my hands and blink through the haze. Lorenzo is crouched on the floor directly in front of me. He isn't looming over me to intimidate me; he's at my level. Both of his hands are raised slightly, palms open and visible.
The smug amusement is entirely gone from his face. What's underneath it makes my breath catch. It's an expression that absolutely does not belong on the face of the man who spent the last week systematically ruining my life.
"I'll tell you everything," he says. His voice is a low, steady anchor in the middle of my chaos. His dark eyes drop briefly to his watch, a flicker of genuine tension crossing his features. "But my mother and your aunt are already waiting downstairs, and..."
"What?!"
The adrenaline overrides the panic. I am on my feet before my brain even processes the sentence. My elbow violently connects with his jaw on my way up, judging by the sharp, grunted curse that escapes his throat. I don't care. I don't stop.
I sprint to the heavy gilded mirror on the wall and look at my reflection.
I look like a literal corpse.
My skin is two shades paler than usual. My eyes carry the hollow, exhausted look of someone whose body is violently recovering from trauma. And then I see them. Faint, purple-red marks circling my wrists.
"You can wear what's on the chair," Lorenzo's voice cuts through the horror. He has recovered from my elbow with infuriating speed. Standing behind me, he pulls a pair of heavy black designer sunglasses from his pocket and extends them toward me. "Put these on, too."
I snatch them from his grip, staring at the dark lenses, then meeting his gaze in the reflection of the glass.
"I have never," I say, each word dripping with lethal clarity, "drunk a single drop of alcohol in my entire life." I turn around, pointing aggressively at my face. "Look at my eyes, Lorenzo. My pupils are..."
A sharp knock rattles the bedroom door.
I choke back the rest of my sentence. I force air into my lungs, turn on my heel, and storm into the attached marble bathroom, slamming the door behind me.
I twist my hair into a messy, aggressive knot and look down at the clothes resting on the shelf by the sink. A tiny denim skirt. A t-shirt with a loud, neon-pink print that reads: I LOVE GLITTER.
I stare at it in sheer disbelief.
Is this a joke?
The moment I hear the outer bedroom door click shut, I rip the bathroom door open, march out, and hurl the bundle of clothes directly at his chest.
Lorenzo catches them effortlessly with one hand—reflexive, clean, fluid. He looks down at the I LOVE GLITTER logo with an expression that is so carefully neutral it's insulting.
"Are these your doll's clothes?" I demand, crossing my arms.
"My sister's," he replies, completely unimpressed. "Why?"
Images of his little sister flash through my mind. A tiny girl with massive dark eyes who looks like an actual angel.
"She's five, Lorenzo."
"She's eight," he corrects smoothly.
I gesture wildly at the fabric. "What kind of sick man..."
"Listen." Lorenzo tosses the clothes onto the chair, steps into my personal space.
He steps so close I can see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, feel the dangerous, steady rhythm of his breath.
"If you don't like the clothes..." He pauses, a dark, wicked glint flickering in his eyes as his gaze drops to my lips.
"...you can always go down there naked."
I don't know if it's the sheer audacity of his words, his overwhelming proximity, or the fact that my body is still running on a deadly combination of panic and exhaustion but a hot, furious blush rushes up my neck. I break eye contact before he can realize how much he affects me.
"It's too small," I mutter to his chest.
"It's too big for her," he counters, his eyes making one slow, possessive pass down my frame before locking back onto mine. "So it'll fit you just fine."
He turns his back on me, dropping heavily into one of the leather armchairs by the window. He crosses one long leg over the other, perfectly at home in the shadows.
"Now hurry up," he says, the teasing purr back in his voice. "We're keeping our family's waiting."
I storm back into the bathroom, kicking the door shut with a violent bang, and throw the pink shirt into the sink.
I hate him. I absolutely, utterly hate him.