Chapter 3 – Sofia #2
Light floods my vision so suddenly I blink.
For a second, everything blurs. Then slowly sharpens.
And my breath catches slightly. It’s a penthouse.
Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Manhattan glowing gold against the night.
Dark marble floors. Soft recessed lighting.
Furniture so expensive it almost looks untouched. No signs of humanity.
I look around.
The armed men are gone. Completely. The only evidence they were ever here is the lingering tension still crawling beneath my skin.
My wrists are no longer restrained. I’m free to move. Technically. But not really. I know there are people outside that door. Probably armed. Probably watching. Probably waiting for instructions.
I rise from the chair, heart pounding hard enough now that I can feel it in my throat. No immediate danger. That realization settles first. No blood. No threats. No violence. It unsettles me more. Because this feels organized. Intentional.
Like I was brought here for a reason.
I turn slowly, taking in more of the apartment. Bookshelves line one wall. Perfectly arranged. The sight almost calms me before I stop myself.
No.
Don’t get comfortable.
I wrap my arms around myself.
My sweater still smells faintly like rain and outside air. My apartment feels very far away.
What’s going on?
The question loops endlessly through my head now.
Who are these people?
What do they want from me?
And the most important question of all—
How do I get out of here?
I take one careful step toward the massive windows, glancing down at the city impossibly far below.
Too high.
Too open.
Too far from anything I can realistically reach.
The glass reflects a faint version of me—smaller than I feel right now. Barely real. Like I could step wrong and disappear entirely into the skyline.
My pulse is still uneven when the door opens behind me.
I whirl away from the window.
For a second, my stomach drops so fast it feels like my body forgot how gravity works.
A man steps into the penthouse. Controlled pace. Expensive coat. Black pants. Dark shirt.
It’s him!
The same rude man from the bookstore.
My breath catches.
Of course.
Of course it’s him.
Didn’t Ashley say the city was too big for me to run into him again?
Well, Ashley is officially wrong about everything.
I take a small step back toward the window, as if distance from him somehow equals safety.
My heart is suddenly too loud in my chest.
My mind scrambles for logic.
Road rage.
That has to be it.
My brain tries to connect the dots in increasingly unhelpful ways.
Did I say something worse than I remember?
Did I offend him in some deeply personal, irreversible way?
Is this how people get kidnapped in New York? For verbal mistakes?
My stomach tightens.
He stops a few feet away from me, close enough that I can see him clearly now. Too clearly.
Sharp features. Cold gray eyes. That same infuriating calm expression that makes it feel like I’m the one reacting incorrectly just by existing near him.
And worse, up close, he’s even more handsome than I remember.
It’s almost unfair.
I hate that my brain notices it at all.
I hate it more that my body does too.
A small shiver runs through me, and I force myself to stand straighter. Show no weakness. My father always told me that.
I draw whatever courage I can find from deep inside my chest and step forward slightly, even though my legs feel like they’ve forgotten how to cooperate properly.
“You,” I say, voice sharper than I feel. “What am I doing here?”
His expression barely changes.
“I think you should sit,” he replies. His voice stays calm, and just arrogant enough to make my irritation spike through the fear. “You’ll need it,” he adds.
My fingers curl slightly at my sides. “I don’t need anything from you,” I snap. “I need answers. Why am I here?”
His lips press together briefly, like I’ve said something mildly inconvenient rather than demanded explanations after being dragged into a penthouse against my will.
Then he points at the nearest couch. “Take a seat.”
My body reacts before my mind fully catches up.
No hesitation. It’s like a desperate need to obey him, to do what he says. For a split second, I almost move. Almost sit. Then I stop myself sharply.
“No.”
His eyes narrow.
And I realize, with a strange flicker of clarity, that he isn’t used to that response.
Not from anyone.
“Sit down, Sofia,” he says.
My breath catches so suddenly it feels like something inside my chest has been yanked tight.
“How do you know my name?” I demand, my voice rising to mask the shock.
“Look, if this is about what happened days ago, I’m sorry.
Okay? I admit it. I walked into the pavement.
Sorry about that. But that’s no reason for you to stalk me, kidnap me, and bring me here. Where even is this place? Let me go.”
My words spill out faster now, fear threading through every syllable.
I need control back.
I need something that makes sense.
He says nothing.
Just watches me.
One hand slips into his pocket.
The other rests loosely at his side, completely unbothered.
“Your apology for stepping onto the pavement without care has been accepted,” he says finally.
My mouth opens slightly.
What?
“But that’s not why you’re here.” A pause. Then, as if he’s stating something as simple as the weather: “I brought you here to discuss our impending marriage.”
Silence hits the room so hard it feels physical.
For a second, I forget how to sit, stand, or breathe properly.
My legs give out on instinct before I can even decide what I’m doing, and I sink onto the couch behind me just to stop myself from collapsing completely.
Marriage.
The word doesn’t land correctly in my brain at first.
“Um—excuse me?” I shriek, heat flooding my face. “This must be some kind of mad joke. I’m sure. What did you just say?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Do you know anyone named Karl Jonathan?”
I frown. The name means nothing to me. “No.”
“He knew your father,” he says calmly. “And he believes you’re in danger.”
The room tilts. Something in my chest drops through the floor. Sixteen years. It’s been sixteen years since my father was murdered in front of me. Sixteen years since I hid between bookshelves, trying not to breathe as blood spread across the floor.
And I’ve never told anyone what really happened that night.
Not even Valeria.
The memory hits so fast I almost stop hearing the room around me.
After the strange man left the apartment that night—after the front door hung broken open and freezing air drifted through the house—I had finally crawled out from hiding.
I still don’t know how I managed it.
I was seven.
Too young to understand death properly, and old enough to recognize it anyway.
I remember my father lying still.
I remember the blood.
I remember the books scattered across the floor.
And somehow—
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t panic.
My father and I had lived alone for years. I barely knew anything about his life outside of us. No family visits. No close friends. Just books. Rules. Patterns.
And a small contact book he once showed me.
If anything ever happens to me, call this number.
I found the book that night with shaking hands and dialed the number exactly the way he taught me to.
Alec answered. My father’s younger brother. The uncle I had never met. He came for me before morning and left my father’s body behind in that apartment.
I never went back.
Not once.
Alec became my guardian after that. Strict. Protective. Always watching.
He told me my father worked for dangerous people.