Noo God please NOO
Chapter 29
SOPHIA
I ignore Lorenzo's quiet laughter as he walks me down the grand spiral staircase, through the courtyard, and into the main building. His proximity is suffocating, a heavy hum of body heat just inches away. My palm drags down the fabric of the skirt, smoothing a wrinkle that isn't there.
Dammit, he was right.
It fits.
Like a second skin.
It is a reality I would very much prefer to violently delete from my brain right now. The shirt, however, pinches tightly under my arms, straining against my chest. I hold onto that flash of claustrophobic anger.
"Told you it would fit," his voice murmurs, a dark, low friction just behind my shoulder. His breath brushes the nape of my neck, making the hairs there stand on end.
"Suck it." I offer him one final lethal glare, but before my hand can even reach the brass handle, his arm sweeps past mine, close enough for his tailored sleeve to brush my bare wrist and he pushes the door open.
In the next heartbeat, my aunt cuts into view.
"Sophia Clarice Miller."
Causing my stomach to drop.
Aunt Clara is already marching across the room toward us the moment the door clicks shut behind our backs. Her face is a dangerous collision of sheer relief and unbridled fury.
"Clara, I..."
"Save it." Her grip on my upper arm is gentle but entirely non-negotiable.
She steers me a few steps to the side, lowering her voice to an icy whisper.
"What exactly am I supposed to think when I get a call in the middle of the night to find out that my niece has broken into a party and gotten so intoxicated she can't even locate the keys to my car?"
She got what?
From the corner of my eye, I watch Lorenzo drop onto the sofa across from his mother. He slides the smartphone from his pocket, lets it spin lazily between his long fingers, and flashes me a sugary, triumphant grin that makes me want to wipe it off his face with my bare hands.
"You should be grateful," Clara continues, not pausing to breathe, "that Lorenzo was kind enough to ensure your safety..."
"That is not what happened!" The words slip past my teeth before I can stop them, echoing too loudly in the high-ceilinged room. Though my head throbs and my memory of last night consists only of blurred fragments, I am one hundred percent certain: the story he spun to my aunt is a flat-out lie.
I take both her hands, trying to anchor my voice despite my skyrocketing pulse.
"Please listen to me. I was not at that party by choice. I didn't go voluntarily. I was... he was the one who..."
"Don't point fingers at other people, Sophia." Clara's voice tightens into a warning. Her gaze travels down my outfit. "And what on earth are you wearing?"
"Clara, please."
"Do you see how unprofessional this looks?" She turns with an apologetic smile toward Miss Calloway, who remains seated across the room. "We are guests in a client's home."
"I haven't done anything!" This time, the volume cuts through the room like dropped glass.
Instantly, heat pricks at the back of my neck.
God, how embarrassing can one person be?
My gaze darts to Lorenzo. Who has lowered his phone and is watching me, his hand pressed firmly over his mouth to hide his amusement. Too bad his eyes betray him; they are dark, glittering, and practically suffocating on his own amusement. He is drinking in my humiliation like fine wine.
I fix my eyes on the ceiling and take a deep breath.
Great.
Not only am I being humiliated by my own aunt in front of my sworn enemy for something I didn't even do, but I am doing it in a tight shirt that proclaims I love glitter in a shimmering, ridiculous font.
Miss Calloway sets her glass down on the side table with an agonizing, unhurried slowness.
This woman has never had to rush a single day in her life; the world waits for her.
She rises and crosses to us. To my surprise, her eyes graze me first in a brief, unexpectedly warm glance before she addresses my aunt.
"My dear," she begins, tilting her head slightly toward her son.
Lorenzo remains on the sofa, phone in hand, acting out the absolute indifference of an innocent lamb.
"Whatever happened last night..." She takes a theatrical pause.
"... judging by the amused face of my son, I highly doubt he was any less involved than your niece."
The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. The playful air evaporates, replaced by a sudden, heavy static.
Lorenzo drops his hand, his eyebrows narrowing into a sharp, defensive line.
"I was the one who helped her," he says, each word low and dangerous, sounding pre-polished by a defense attorney.
Then he points a long finger at me.
In my mind, I am praying that his mother will say exactly what I am thinking.
That he is the problem.
That he did something wrong.
That he, as she already mentioned, creates these toxic situations.
"That still doesn't alter the fact," Clara interjects, turning back to me with renewed purpose, "that Sophia took my car in the dead of night. Without asking. Without a single word about where she was going."
"I know," I cut in hastily. "I know, and I'm sorry. I will accept any punishment. A week of being grounded, whatever you decide..."
"I have a much better idea," Clara says.
The tone sends a horrible, twisting knot straight to my gut.
Clara looks at me with the exact expression she wears when a decision is final, but she is about to market it to me as a "suggestion." "You will help with the planning of the centenary celebration."
The silence that follows lasts exactly one second.
Then Lorenzo laughs out loud.
It is a short, dark, completely involuntary sound. He catches himself almost immediately, slamming his fist against his lips.
I glare at him, my vision tunneling. His eyes flash with pure malice and delight, a wicked spark passing between us, but he keeps his mouth shut. He has just enough survival instinct left to know that any words right now would be his execution. Still, he radiates absolute, smug satisfaction.
"I can't," I scramble to object, my chest heaving. "Seriously, Clara, I can't. I have my internship, I have school, I barely have time to..."
Breathe.
"Every punishment must carry consequences," Clara says flatly. And turns back to Miss Calloway with the steely resolve of a businesswoman closing a major deal.
"My niece will be delighted to assist your team." Her gaze practically stabs me. "Won't you, Sophia?"
"It seems I will," I choke out. The volume hovers right on the edge of acceptable behavior, but it carries the unmistakable weight of the pure hatred I am feeling right now.
"That is lovely of you, Sophia," Miss Calloway says warmly, gesturing to the empty space on the sofa beside her.
Then she turns to her son, who has suddenly gone entirely rigid as the crosshairs swing his way.
"My son will also help, of course. Just to ensure you still have enough time for your internship."
Lorenzo's chest hitches. His smugness drains from his face so fast it leaves him looking hollow.
"What?" The word bleeds out of him, no longer a whisper, but a dark, dangerous growl.
The glare he directs at me is murderous. If looks could kill, I would be buried six feet under right now.
He stares at me as if I am the sole reason for this entire disaster.
But I don't break eye contact. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of flinching.
Instead, I hold his gaze and give him that exact same venomous glare back.
Slowly, deliberately and I point a finger at my own eye, trace it down my cheek in a mocking 'boo-hoo' gesture, and offer him a drippingly fake, sweet smile.
Eat that you jerk.
Inside, my mind is spinning.
Because I don't really know whether to laugh or cry.
Laugh, because that self-satisfied, insufferable mask he has been wearing since opening the bedroom door has been completely wiped from his features.
And cry, because the person condemned to "help" me is the exact asshole responsible for this entire nightmare. His punishment is simultaneously my ultimate torture. By any measurable standard, this is wildly unfair.
"Madre," he barks out, his tone turning sharp"Why should I help? We have staff to do that"
What an arrogant snob.
"Lorenzo." She cuts him off, warning him with a single, razor-sharp look masked behind a pleasant smile.
She gestures to the empty cushion beside her. Clara sits down, sinking back with the deep satisfaction of a woman whose morning has just drastically improved.
"Shall we discuss the plans?" Miss Calloway asks.
Lorenzo and I lock eyes across the space, the air thick enough to choke on.
His jaw muscles twitch violently, a sharp, angry pulse under his skin.
His fingers grip his smartphone so hard his knuckles turn white, though he doesn't cast a single glance at the screen.
Every fiber of his face is working overtime to drag his cool, unbothered mask back into place, but it just won't budge.
One last time, my eyes drift to the ceiling for a brief, private moment of utter despair.
Be kind.
I repeat the mantra like a prayer against my own ribs.
Choose kindness and stay strong.
I try to force the reminder deep into my skull, even though there is a burning, roaring fire dead inside of me that wants nothing more than to violently drive my fist straight into his gut.
Instead of drowning in all the creative ways I could strangle him right here on the carpet, I forcefully shift my expression.
I anchor my anger and pull a tight, bright smile onto my face.
He is trapped in this room with me and he hates it just as much as I do.
I remind myself.
Wonderful, I think, smoothing down the front of my borrowed skirt with a trembling hand.
Just absolutely wonderful.