Chapter 7
SEVEN
Did you eat today?
SOPHIE
I walk Poppy out to her car, and we say goodbye with plans to meet again tomorrow. On my way back upstairs, I swing by the mailboxes and pull out a letter addressed to me from the Illinois Department of Corrections.
I already know what it is before I even open it.
My hands tremble slightly as I slide my thumb under the seal and unfold the paper. The words hit harder than I expect: Parole granted for good behavior. The release date is two months from today.
I just stand there for a moment, heart pounding, the hallway blurring around the edges. My stepfather—getting out early.
He was sentenced back in Illinois for his second DUI. He hit a pedestrian. He should’ve served the full term. I was hoping by the time he got out, I’d be in law school. More established. Intimidating. But now, I don’t have much time.
I pull out my phone and check my bank account. The number on the screen punches me in the gut. It’s a lot lower than I thought.
A couple weeks ago, my mom called—crying, begging. Some emergency. She needed a few thousand. I told myself I owed her nothing, but I still sent the money.
She let him abuse me. She married him. He would throw things when he drank, shove me into walls, leave bruises that took weeks to fade.
But the worst part—the part I never say out loud—were the things he’d say when no one else was around.
He’d talk about my body. Tell me he couldn’t wait until I turned eighteen.
He used to count down the years on my birthday like it was some kind of sick joke.
I shake the thoughts away. I can’t go there right now. Not when I have a tutoring session in less than thirty minutes.
I force myself to move, to refocus. I need to make a good impression—Carter Delaney is my first and only assigned student.
If I mess this up, it could impact whether I keep the job.
And now more than ever, I need this extra income.
I need a stronger lock for my apartment door.
One that can’t be opened with a push like the old, flimsy one my landlord refuses to acknowledge.
Two months. That’s all I have. And I can’t waste a single day of it.
By the time I reach the Student Center, I’m breathless, my lungs burning from the run.
I splash water on my face in the bathroom, trying to calm my nerves.
Ten minutes early. Good. I need to make a solid impression—if Carter decides I’m not helpful or competent enough, he’ll cancel and find another tutor. And I need this. Badly.
I head into the tutoring room I reserved and quickly set up—laptop open, writing samples arranged, mental script running through my head. I try to steady my breathing, but my nerves are all tangled up—until the door creaks open.
It’s him.
The guy from the cafe.
He walks in looking as smug as he did that day, and closes the door behind him with a soft click that makes the hairs on my neck rise. His grin is slow, and something in my chest twists.
“Look who it is,” he says, tossing his bag on the chair.
“Saw your name tag at the cafe—Sophie. Cute name, by the way. Then I noticed a Sophie listed as a writing tutor and figured, why not take my chances? Looks like fate’s finally working in my favor.
” He leans in, voice dropping. “God, you smell so fucking good. Did you just take a shower? Now I’m not gonna be able to stop picturing you in there. ”
He doesn’t sit. Just looms. I instinctively shrink in my chair, frozen.
He stares at my sweatshirt. “You wore that last time too,” he says, voice low. “I mean, it’s fine. I’m not really planning to see you in any clothes much anyway.”
My stomach knots.
“Do you always dress like this?” he continues.
I glance down at my hoodie. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Low effort.” He tilts his head. “It’s kind of cute.”
Something about his tone makes my skin prickle. It’s so familiar.
I swallow, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed.
Carter moves closer, casual but intentional, hands in his pockets.
“Let me pitch you something,” he says, like this is a business transaction.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for every orgasm this semester.
Yours. Mine. Doesn’t matter. As long as you put that pretty body of yours to good use, and maybe let me help you relax a little too. I’m very generous.”
He pauses, like he’s waiting for a laugh or a blush. I feel my face heat, but it’s not from embarrassment—it’s horror.
“I’m serious,” he continues. “You look like you could use the money. I mean, the sweatshirt? The cafe job? Now this? You’re clearly desperate.
And I’m offering you a better deal. You can play tutor for the books, but have fun with me during the time and actually make money.
Real money. Hell, I’ll even let you be on top if that helps you pretend you’re in control. I love a cowgirl.”
Every word feels like a blade. My hands are cold, my chest tight. He’s still talking.
“You don’t have to say anything now. Think it over,” he says.
“I’ll let you collect your tutoring fee for the hour.
Consider it a gift. But I’ll sweeten the deal if you’re smart enough to take it.
It’s not just the money, Sophie. I’m really fucking good.
You’ll enjoy it. Probably more than you’ll want to admit. ”
He moves toward the door, but pauses—just long enough to twist the knife. “My family’s loaded. Just putting that out there. So I’d think twice before making a scene. You don’t want to go pissing off the wrong people.”
I can’t speak. Can’t move. I’m frozen in place, my pulse roaring in my ears.
He smirks over his shoulder, and looks at me up and down. “Oh, and I’m sure you’ll be smart enough not to mention this to your boyfriend—if he even is your boyfriend. That guy from the cafe? Please. I’m certain someone who looks as polished as he did isn’t going to be dating a basic girl like you.”
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him.
And I just sit there, frozen, my breath shallow.
The room blurs at the edges. His voice still echoes.
Just like my stepfather’s when he was drunk and circling.
He used to trap me in corners, beer in hand, breath reeking of alcohol, eyes glazed over with something far worse.
He’d chip away at me, slowly killing whatever confidence I managed to build.
But then add something like you’re filling out or just a few more years and I can finally pop that sweet cherry.
Like I was some prize he was owed. Like my eighteenth birthday was his fucking green light.
That’s what this feels like. The same menace. And once again, I can’t move.
MICAH
I’m completely losing it. This girl—Sophie—is taking up way too much of my thoughts and time. There’s a stack of reports and documents waiting for me at home; all things I need to prep for my dad to prove I’m capable of handling the business. And yet, here I am, parked outside the student center.
I saw her running in earlier, backpack bouncing behind her like it weighed more than she did.
It was almost endearing—no, it was endearing.
She's not short, maybe around five four, but she always looks like she's sprinting from one thing to the next, like slowing down isn't an option.
I catch myself making a mental note to ask if she's eaten today.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I watch as a guy walks into the building.
And not just any guy—the creep who harassed Sophie at Boston Brews.
My shoulders stiffen. It’s been a few weeks, but I don’t forget faces like his.
Or how terrified Sophie looked that day.
My instinct is to go in, right then and there, just to make sure he’s not pulling anything again.
But he’s back out less than five minutes later.
I don’t even know if Sophie would tell me if something was wrong—or if she’d seen him again.
She’s really nothing like the other girls I know.
To be fair, most of them fall into two categories: the casual kind who don’t ask for much beyond a night or two, or the polished, upper-crust girls my dad would love to see beside me—powerful last names, perfectly curated LinkedIns, already shopping for matching estate portfolios.
But Sophie is unpredictable. Real. She’s quiet but makes the inside of my head loud. She doesn’t like to make a scene. And I can’t stand not knowing what her deal is.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll through my phone and find Nico Raines’ contact.
The guy’s our family’s unofficial fixer—private investigator, problem solver, maybe even cleaner, depending on who you ask.
I don’t know all the details of what he does, and it’s probably better that way.
I’m almost certain most of his real estate and yachts have been funded by The Vale Group over the years.
He picks up after three rings. “Micah. Everything alright?”
“Hey, Nico. Yeah, everything’s great. I was just hoping you could find some information on someone for me. Her name’s Sophie Lennox. She’s a sophomore at Westcliffe University. Works three jobs. I want to know what her deal is—her background, family, anything you can get, really.”
There’s a pause. “Is she a threat?”
“No. Not at all,” I say quickly. “She’s a friend. I want to help her. I just don’t know how. Not yet, at least.”
Another pause. Then, “Got it. I’ll see what I can find. And don’t worry. I’ll keep this quiet—between us.”
I exhale. Nico picked up on it without me having to say it. This isn’t something I want my father knowing about. And that’s probably the biggest sign that this thing with Sophie isn’t just a distraction. It’s something I want to protect. Especially from him.
I see Sophie finally walk out. She's slower now, not in a rush like before. Her face is pale, and she’s clutching her bag tight against her chest. Why does she look like she just cried? I sit up straighter, something uneasy curling in my gut.
I hop out of the car and keep my voice light. “Hey, Sophie. Coincidence? Or are you following me again?”
She jumps slightly, but I notice it. Then that small, practiced smile appears. “Micah. What are you doing here?”
“Just finished up on campus,” I lie, keeping it casual. “Figured I’d swing by and head out this way. Need a ride?”
There’s the smallest hesitation before she shakes her head. “No, I’m okay.”
I study her for a moment before speaking again. “Please let me drive you. Just so I know you get home safe.”
She hesitates again. “Fine,” she says quietly.
That was easy.
I open the passenger door for her. She slips inside, settling into the seat in silence. Her fingers pick at a loose thread on her sleeve, eyes focused out the window. Something feels off. No, I’m certain there’s something wrong. But I don’t push.
The timing doesn’t line up. That guy left ages ago. She could just be tired. Maybe school and work is catching up to her? She does work three jobs, after all.
She’s quiet. Quieter than usual. As I drive, I glance over and catch the way she stares out the window, eyes distant, like her body’s here but the rest of her isn’t.
Her face is blotchy—barely noticeable unless you’re looking close.
But I am. I realized I always am when it comes to her.
She definitely cried. And for some reason, it makes me feel uneasy.
“Sophie,” I say gently, “You okay?”
She flinches slightly, like I interrupted her thoughts again.
“You can tell me,” I say. “Whatever it is.”
She hesitates—then replies, voice a bit louder than before, “Everything’s fine. I’m just tired. Long day.” But her voice wavers. Like she’s faking confidence. She blinks fast, like she’s trying to stop tears from coming, and my grip tightens on the wheel.
I don’t know what happened, but something did. So I pull over to the side of the road.
She looks over, confused. “What are you doing?”
I turn to face her. “What’s wrong, Soph?”
She shakes her head quickly, avoiding my eyes. “I said everything’s fine.”
Her voice is soft and strained. Like she’s using everything she has just to hold it together. And it fucking kills me and I don’t know why. I want to fix whatever this is, but I can tell she’s not ready. So I give her space.
“Okay.” Instead, I ask, “Did you eat today?”
She nods too fast. “Yeah.”
Right on cue, her stomach growls, loud and clear. She flushes, then mutters, “I had breakfast.”
I raise a brow. “No lunch?”
“No, I was busy.”
“Let’s get dinner,” I say.
“I just want to go home.”
Her stomach rumbles again. I try not to laugh. “What if we eat at my place? No people, no pressure. I’ll cook, or we can order. Whatever you want.”
Order. I don’t even know how to cook. The hell is wrong with me?
She hesitates, then looks at me with a small smile. It’s soft, but real. And for some reason, it makes me feel some kind of warmth.
She nods. “Okay.”
Back at The Haven, I pull into the garage, and we take the penthouse elevator up. When the doors open, she steps in and stops cold. Her sparkly brown eyes go wide. “Whoa.”
Gesturing to the living room I can’t help but smile. “Make yourself at home.”
She turns in place slowly, taking it all in—the high ceilings, city views, clean lines and open space. “This is your place?” she breathes. “I can’t make myself at home. This cannot be any more different than my home.”
I chuckle. “Nah, it’s nothing special.”
She looks at me, still stunned. “This must cost a fortune. How did you even land the penthouse?”
I shrug. “Just got lucky, I guess.”
She gives me a look like she’s trying to figure me out, then lets it go. Still doesn’t realize the connection. Doesn’t know this building is mine. I’m curious to see how long it takes her, so I don’t tell her yet.
And then she flashes a genuine smile.