Stealing From An Unconscious Woman

CHAPTER 6

Sophia

Stealing From An Unconscious Woman

The Rolls-Royce Spectre was so quiet it felt like we were gliding on silk rather than gravel.

I thanked Isaac as he helped me out, then made the short trek to Mrs Potts’ place to collect Summer.

My neighbor didn't ask about the designer dress or the hair, she just handed over my sleeping niece with a warm squeeze of the arm that said she was in my corner, no matter what.

By the time I walked into the farmhouse. Summer was a heavy, warm weight against my shoulder.

Isaac followed, carrying enough luxury shopping bags to stock a small boutique.

“Careful with those, Isaac,” I whispered as we reached the porch.

Isaac nodded, his expression unreadable as he balanced three oversized, gold-embossed shopping bags in each hand.

He followed me inside, the floorboards groaning under the weight of a lifestyle this house had never seen before.

Daphne was on the sofa, bathed in the flickering blue light of a fashion show, a bag of chips balanced on her lap like a sacred relic.

She didn't even look up at first.

“You're late, Soph. Mom’s already upstairs in a ‘green bottle’ coma, and I'm not cleaning the—”

The words died in her throat.

Her jaw didn't just drop, it practically hit the linoleum.

She scrambled into a sitting position, her eyes bulging as she took in the scene: the sleek deep blue silk of my dress, the sharp, expensive bob of my hair, and Isaac, who looked like he’d stepped off the set of a high-end spy thriller.

Isaac set the bags down with a soft thud near the stairs.

He straightened his suit, gave me a polite, deferential nod, and spoke in a voice that was pure professionalism.

“I believe that is everything, Madam. Should I inform Mr Ashford that you’ve retired for the evening, or will you be calling him yourself?”

Madam.

The word hung in the air like a heavy, golden chandelier.

“I'll call him, Isaac. Thank you. Get some rest,” I said.

“Goodnight, Madam.”

He turned on his heel and exited the front door.

For a solid ten seconds, the only sound was the hum of the TV and the soft, rhythmic breathing of the child in my arms.

Daphne stood up, her face twisting from shock into a mask of pure, unadulterated irritation.

“What the hell is this, Sophia? Is this a joke? Is there a hidden camera?”

“Lower your voice. I'm carrying a sleeping child, not a sack of flour. Have some respect for the quiet.”

I hissed, shifting Summer’s weight.

“Respect?” Daphne’s voice rose to a shrill, jagged frequency.

“You're still insisting with this lie? What are you getting at with this humiliating display? You're way too ‘mature’ for this desperate little ‘Pretty Woman’ act. It's pathetic. You're trying too hard, and it's embarrassing for both of us.”

Mature.

The polite way of calling me old and boring.

I felt a surge of cold, sharp adrenaline.

If only she knew the ink was barely dry on the million-dollar lie I just signed.

She'd be blown away.

“I'm not ‘getting’ at anything, Daphne,” I said, my voice dripping with a calm I didn't truly feel.

“I'm just evolving. You should try it sometime, it's much more rewarding than living vicariously through a flickering TV screen and a bag of miserable stale chips.”

“Evolving?” She barked, a bitter laugh escaping her.

“You cut your hair and even got your nails done just to mock me. You knew I wanted that specific shade of blue for my birthday next month! You're doing this to salt the wound because you’re jealous that I'll look much better in blue.”

I stared at her, genuinely floored by the gymnastics her brain was performing.

She honestly thinks I’m the moon orbiting her sun.

“And who was that guy?” her eyes narrowed with a nasty, veiled venom.

“Isaac? Is that your new little project? Did he steal some of Andrew Ashford’s petty cash to buy you an entire wardrobe just so you could pretend to match up to me for one night? Because newsflash, sis, putting on a designer label on a tractor doesn't turn it into a Ferrari.”

I felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in my throat.

She thought I was dating the driver. She thought this was a heist.

What a dumbass.

“You think Isaac bought this?”

“How else could you afford it? You don't have two nickels to rub together unless you’re counting Summer’s lunch money.”

Everyone… It was time.

I slowly shifted Summer to my right arm, making sure my left hand was perfectly positioned under the dim living room light.

I lifted my hand, splaying my fingers so the princess-cut diamond could do exactly what it was designed to do…

Blind the opposition.

The stone caught the blue light of the TV, fracturing it into a thousand sparkling shards.

Daphne’s eyes went rounder than saucers.

She froze, her breath hitching in a way that sounded like a vacuum cleaner choking on a sock.

“If Isaac stole from my fiancé,”

I emphasized the word until it felt like a physical weight.

“Then how on earth could a mere driver afford a ring like this? This isn't ‘petty cash’ jewelry, Daphne. This is ‘cancel your mortgage jewelry.”

Daphne reached out as if to touch it, then recoiled like the diamond might burn her.

Her face went through three different shades of pale before settling on a sickly grey.

“He… he probably knocked out some poor wealthy woman in a parking garage,” she stammered, her voice trembling with a mix of horror and denial.

“Yeah, that's it. He pried the ring from her unconscious fingers and gave it to you so you'd keep his secret. It's blood jewelry, Sophia! You're wearing a crime scene!”

I actually laughed.

A genuine, bright sound that felt like a release valve.

“Blood jewelry? Honestly, Daph, have you been dipping into Mom’s green bottles tonight? Or have you just finally watched so many soap operas that your brain has turned into lukewarm mush?”

“It's not real. It can't be real. Andrew Ashford doesn't even know you exist beyond the mud on your boots.”

“Believe what you want for tonight. Sleep well, little sister. Because tomorrow, you're going to find out exactly which one of us is the liar, and which one of us is the future Mrs Ashford.”

I said, stepping toward the stairs, then paused at the banister, looking over my shoulder with a smugness that felt like a warm blanket.

“Goodnight sis. Try not to have a stroke before breakfast. You'll want to be conscious for the show.”

I climbed the stairs, the silk of my dress rustling against the old wood.

“What does that mean? Sophia! What do you mean by that?”

She yelled after me, her voice hitting a pitch that probably had the neighborhood dogs howling.

I had silenced Daphne.

I had won this round, but as I tucked Summer in, a cold thought drifted through me.

Tomorrow, Andrew wouldn't be a contract on a desk—he'd be sitting at our dinner table.

The lie was about to become a living thing.