Chapter Three: The Herbert Summit

Two years later

Two years. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath for two entire years, each inhale shallow, each exhale forced. And yet, I survive. Through betrayal, humiliation, and pain that cracks something sacred inside me, I stand tall. My name, Sophia Monroe, once whispered with judgment and pity, now resonates in boardrooms and banking halls as the founder of Monroe Luxe—the six-star hotel that sits on the city’s skyline like a silent, glorious revenge.

But success isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Behind the glossy magazine features and the televised press interviews, I juggle ledgers and chase investors, sometimes struggle to pay staff, holding down a fortress with holes that nobody but me sees. Debt clings to me like an invisible leech, draining me day by day, feeding on my drive. I haven’t slept properly in months. I eat out of habit, not hunger. Every smile I wear is stitched together with silent screams.

And then the invitation arrives. A high-profile business summit hosted by Hartley Global, addressed personally to me, the founder of Monroe Luxe. A gesture of appreciation to their partners. The paper smells like power—embossed seal, signed in ink that probably costs more than my shoes. I stare at it for an hour, wondering if it’s a trap. Wondering if he’ll be there. William Hartley.

My breath catches as I reread the sender list. No mention of names. Just Hartley Global.

It could be nothing. It could be everything.

I should throw it out. But pride has a twisted voice. Exposure matters. This could bring investors. Press. Influence. And above all, I need the world to see that I survive him—and thrive.

So I go.

My dress isn’t expensive, but it fits like it’s made for war. I paint my lips crimson, not because I feel brave, but because I need to look untouchable. I walk into the summit hall with my head high and my heart clawing at my ribcage.

Everyone smiles. Some bow slightly. Others whisper behind champagne glasses. Partners from Dubai, Shanghai, London. Executives shake my hand. A few board members of Hartley Global applaud me on the hotel’s rise, saying how proud they are to work with such an innovative luxury brand.

I smile. I nod. I speak politely. And all I want is to run.

Then I feel it. A shift. A prickle on my skin like heat from a fire I thought long extinguished. I turn—and time splits in two.

He’s there.

William.

He isn’t alone. Flanked by executives and shareholders, talking like he hasn’t shattered me. Laughing like I didn’t lie awake for months trying to hate him. But the second our eyes meet, something ancient and volatile surges.

His lips part. His stance falters. His gaze clings to me like he’s trying to memorize every piece of me. And I stand there, unmoving, unapologetically whole. Not his anymore.

Not ever again.

The crowd moves around me, but I can’t hear anything. My body is still. My soul, less so.

***

William’s POV

Fuck.

My stomach drops the second I see her.

She isn’t on the guest list. I would’ve remembered. I check the names twice. But there she is, standing like vengeance sculpted into a woman—Sophia Monroe, looking ten times more powerful, a hundred times more beautiful, and not the girl I abandon like a fucking coward.

I know the hotel has a female founder. I’ve read about Monroe Luxe breaking into the six-star league. I even envy how fast it climbs up in luxury circles. I just never connect the name.

Sophia Monroe.

My Sophia.

I can’t breathe. Her dress clings to her like satin sin. Her hair is different, her body fuller, more curved, more sensual. There’s no trace of the girl who used to bring me coffee in her robe. This woman? She’s a goddess wrapped in grit.

And I? I’m just the idiot who lets Clara crawl into my bed and rot everything I had with Sophia.

I leave Clara. Weeks after that whole twisted shitshow. She throws her pregnancy in my face like a grenade. Says it’s mine, then says it isn’t, then says it again. I stop listening. I tell her to go to hell. I can’t even look at her without thinking of the betrayal. She uses me, manipulates me. Calls Sophia a weak little virgin. I want to strangle her.

But now, seeing Sophia like this?

I want to beg.

I want to drop to my knees and apologize for every second I waste on that lying bitch.

Sophia has grown into a storm. Everything about her screams power, sex, and pain—painted like art. My cock twitches. My chest aches. I hate how I miss her. I hate more how badly I want her again.

I shouldn’t. I don’t deserve her. But I need her. I would burn this entire room just to have one minute with her again.

***

Sophia’s POV

I don’t flinch. Not when I see the regret bleeding out of William’s stare. Not when his jaw clenches. Not when his hands curl into fists like he’s battling the urge to speak. I stand still, calm, collected. But inside, I’m bleeding all over again.

He still has that effect on me. I hate that he does. I hate that I want him to hurt the way I hurt. And he does. I see it in the way he looks at me. Like he realizes too late what he lost.

I walk away first. Not in a rush. Not like I’m running. Just one step at a time, cutting the thread between us with every graceful stride.

People congratulate me. A woman from Vogue asks for a quote. I smile and give her a line about persistence and dreams. But even then, I can feel him watching me.

And then I feel another gaze.

Different---Colder and sharper.

I turn my head slightly, and my breath catches in my throat.

Dominic Hartley.

I know it’s him the moment I see him. William's father, the resemblance is there. I remember how William used to talk about him with both reverence and disdain. He’s rumored to be ice and fire. But here he is, still handsome in a brutal kind of way. His eyes are glacial. Calculating. As if he can see through me, into every scar I try to cover. He isn’t mingling. He isn’t clapping. He’s standing there like a king observing pawns.

And I am no pawn.

Our eyes lock.

I don’t blink. Neither does he. Something electric passes between us—raw, quiet, and heavy with unspoken understanding. I can feel the power in the air shift. He tilts his head slightly, just once, and I know he isn’t watching out of curiosity. He’s interested.

A server walks up to me. He’s trembling slightly, holding a folded note.

“Ms. Monroe,” he says, voice hushed. “Mr. Dominic Hartley would like a word with you. In private. The courtyard.”

Every cell in my body screams to say no.

“What's the deal with this man?” I wonder.