Chapter 31 — The Morning After

( Sophie’s pov)

I woke before my alarm.

That never happens.

Usually I’m dragged into the day by insistent beeping and a sinking feeling in my stomach, like waking means facing life, and life means swallowing discomfort. But today — I woke up as if something in me already knew there was too much to think about to waste time sleeping.

I lay still.

The ceiling was gray with early light, and my apartment made its usual small noises — the hum of the fridge, the faint rush of distant traffic, the building settling like an old spine exhaling.

And then their names drifted into my mind.

Adrian.

Lucian.

Cassian.

Like three different climates.

Three different gravitational pulls.

Three different ways of being seen.

I lay on my side, eyes drifting toward the wall.

What Adrian said lingered first:

I read every document you touched.

Touched.

He could have said: wrote, submitted, uploaded, worked on.

But no.

He chose touched.

Like there was something of me in the work. Something personal. Something human.

Then Lucian’s voice cut in, sharp and bold:

Ideas should be bold. Safe ideas die.

My heart kicked.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Because part of me — the part I abandoned — used to think that way too.

Before Ryan.

Before the fallout.

Before the shame that wasn’t mine but still settled on me like soot.

And then Cassian…

You’re human. It’s allowed.

What do you do when you’re not being brilliant?

You are.

Those words — those dangerous, soft words — settled deepest.

Because brilliance is earned.

Capability is proven.

Confidence is built.

But lovable?

That’s the word that feels like a lie when I say it about myself.

I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing.

I want to fall for none of them.

I want to stay neutral.

Professional.

Untouched.

But want is weak against the starving parts of a person.

And I…

I have been starving for so long.

I got up and moved through the morning routine like I was underwater. Everything felt slow, dream-tangled. Shower, towel, toothbrush, clothes — all mechanical actions while thoughts thrummed beneath.

At work, maybe I could distract myself.

At work, maybe I’d shove it all aside.

At work, maybe I’d be sensible.

Maybe.

I arrived early — earlier than anyone.

Except one person.

The office lobby was quiet when I stepped in, and I nearly jumped when I discovered someone already standing there, hands in pockets, calmly waiting for the elevator.

Adrian.

Just Adrian.

He turned when he heard the door, and his face softened almost imperceptibly — like recognition warmed the edges of him.

“Good morning,” he said.

His voice was low, steady.

Like a lighthouse in fog.

I swallowed. “Hi. You’re… early.”

“So are you.”

I huffed a dry little laugh. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He tilted his head. “Thinking about work?”

Not them.

Not himself.

Not personal.

Work.

I almost loved him for that.

“Yes,” I said. “A few things stuck in my head.”

We stepped into the elevator.

Just us.

No noise.

No distraction.

At the third floor he spoke again, quietly:

“You’re tougher than you realize.”

The words hit me so unexpectedly I turned to stare at him.

“How… how do you know that?”

He didn’t look away.

“It’s usually the ones who’ve had to begin anew who carry the deepest doubts about themselves.”

And you… strike me as someone who began again when you didn’t want to.”

My heart shot upward into my throat.

Did he know?

About Ryan?

About my mother?

About the humiliation?

No.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t.

But somehow — he saw the aftermath anyway.

The elevator chimed.

He didn’t push.

He didn’t pry.

He simply stepped out and said:

“When the time comes, you’ll stop defining yourself by your past wounds and start recognizing the person who survived them.”

Then he walked away.

And I stood in the elevator, palms sweating, pulse racing.

Because his words didn’t feel like observation.

They felt like prophecy.

I spent the morning moving through my tasks with a kind of detached focus. Numbers, spreadsheets, marketing projections — all mechanical, all necessary — but my mind kept looping back to them. The brothers. Adrian’s calm, steady energy. Lucian’s electric intensity. Cassian’s easy warmth.

Each one left a mark, and each mark felt like a question I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer.

I had never been good with questions. Especially when they had to do with myself.

By noon, I had collected enough courage to grab a coffee in the small breakroom. The place was quiet — a rare moment of solitude in an otherwise bustling office. I sank into a corner seat, my laptop open but ignored, fingers wrapped around the warmth of the cup.

And then he appeared.

Lucian.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded, looking like he belonged nowhere but there — like the world bent to his energy without asking permission.

“You always sit here?” His voice was low, teasing.

“I… usually try to avoid people.” I winced at my own honesty.

He smirked, eyes sharp, unreadable. “Avoiding people? That doesn’t seem like you.”

I blinked. He was right. It didn’t seem like me. Not before. Not the old me. But the new me? The tentative, broken, learning-to-breathe-me? Maybe.

“Maybe I’m learning,” I said cautiously.

Lucian’s eyes softened — just slightly. “Learning is good. But remember: leaning too far back means you miss the best moments. Life doesn’t reward hesitation.”

I felt my chest tighten. Because every word felt like a dare. A challenge. A spotlight.

And it terrified me.

Later, back at my desk, I tried to focus. I really did. But then the door opened — and in came Cassian.

He carried two coffees, one for himself, one obviously for me. He didn’t wait to be asked. He just placed mine gently beside my laptop.

“You look like you need this,” he said casually, smile soft and warm, like sunlight through blinds.

“Thanks,” I whispered, unsure if I was smiling or just frozen.

“Rough morning?” he asked, leaning against the edge of my desk, relaxed, completely unthreatening.

I exhaled. “Something like that.”

He nodded like he understood without pressing further. “I’ve noticed you. The way you throw yourself into things. It’s… admirable. And exhausting, I’m sure.”

I blinked. Nobody had ever spoken to me like that — nobody had ever seen me like that.

“I…” I hesitated. “…I try.”

“You do more than try.” He said it like it was fact, not flattery. Like my effort was a thing undeniable, unchallengeable.

By mid-afternoon, I realized I hadn’t eaten lunch. Or maybe I had, but my brain had filed it away as irrelevant. My focus was fractured across three men I barely knew and yet who had already planted themselves like seeds in my mind.

I tried to organize my thoughts.

Adrian was… stability. Grounding. Calm. A reminder that competence could exist without fanfare, that acknowledgment could feel like safety.

Lucian was… intensity. A storm. A challenge. A mirror that reflected everything I had buried deep inside. Boldness. Potential. Fear. Desire.

Cassian was… warmth. Acceptance. Playfulness. The quiet reassurance that I didn’t have to be whole or perfect to be seen, to be valued, to matter.

And me? I was still… fractured.

By the end of the day, exhaustion settled into my bones. I wanted to retreat into my apartment and hide under a blanket. But part of me — the part that had survived loss, betrayal, and shame — forced me forward.

The elevator ride down was silent, and I almost missed him if I hadn’t felt the shift in air.

Adrian.

He had waited. Of course he had. He always waited. Not impatiently, not demanding attention, just… present.

“Another long day?” he asked. No judgment. No teasing. Just… steady.

I nodded, unsure if I wanted to speak.

“You handled it well,” he said quietly. “Even with everything pulling at you, you stayed present.”

I swallowed. “I… I try.”

“Good,” he said. “Trying is the first step toward mastery. And the only way forward for people who have rebuilt themselves.”

I looked at him, really looked. Adrian had this way of seeing you without exposing you. Without breaking you open. And yet somehow, his words dug in anyway, in the quietest, most effective way.

By the time I reached home, I was drained. Three brothers, three energies, three truths, all colliding in my chest like a storm I couldn’t control.

I sank onto the couch, head in my hands, and let the memories of the day wash over me.

Adrian: competent, steady, grounding.

Lucian: electric, bold, terrifyingly magnetic.

Cassian: warm, gentle, endlessly human.

And me… me, still figuring out who I was after everything I had lost.

I closed my eyes, trying to sort it all out. But I couldn’t.

Because the truth was simple and terrifying: I liked all three. Each one in a different way. Each one pulling at something essential in me that I had almost forgotten existed.

And I had no idea how to navigate that.

The night was long. I couldn’t sleep. My mind traced the edges of their faces, their voices, their touches — or imagined touches.

The question that haunted me wasn’t which one I liked best. The question was… who could I allow myself to be with — without fear, without shame, without the ghosts of my past haunting every step?

And that question had no easy answer.

Because I was still learning.

Still rebuilding.

Still discovering that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t broken.

I just needed to learn how to be whole again.