Chapter 36— Fractures and Foundations

Sophie’s Pov

The gala started as it always did — with glittering lights, murmurs of investors, the soft clinking of wine glasses, and a subtle undercurrent of power in the air.

I stepped into the ballroom, holding my clutch like it was a shield. The dress I wore was understated — soft lavender, modest neckline, delicate fabric that moved with me. Neutral enough not to draw attention, yet feminine enough that I didn’t disappear entirely.

I tried to focus on the present. The bright chandeliers. The polished floors. The people — all of them walking, talking, smiling, pretending the weight of ambition wasn’t crushing them from the inside.

But then a familiar scent — wood, spice, sunlight — and I froze.

Cassian.

He had arrived early. I could see him talking to a group of executives, relaxed, charming, completely at ease. And then, like some invisible tether pulling me forward, he noticed me.

His eyes softened immediately. Not a flirtation. Not an assessment. Just… recognition.

I felt my chest tighten.

I wanted to move toward him. I wanted to step back. I wanted to vanish entirely.

Instead, I walked forward. Slowly. Step by step, as though my feet had to negotiate with my heart.

He excused himself from the group gracefully and came to me, smiling lightly. “Sophie,” he said, voice quiet enough that only I could hear, “you made it.”

“I… yes,” I managed, feeling fragile under his gaze.

He gestured to a quiet corner of the ballroom, away from cameras and the flood of investors. “Shall we?”

I nodded, and we walked together.

The conversation began with work — harmless, superficial. Product launches, marketing trends, investor responses. But beneath the polite chatter, a current of tension hummed. I could feel it.

Cassian seemed to sense my fragility. He didn’t ask intrusive questions. He didn’t push. But every sentence was crafted to let me breathe, to let me exist without collapsing.

And then, almost unconsciously, I found myself telling him:

“I… I have to confess something. Something… heavy.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. He nodded. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m listening.”

Can we speak somewhere more quiet”. I said

He lead us to a balcony.

And the words came spilling out.

The story of the child.

How my mother had asked me to be a surrogate for her and my ex-husband.

How I had agreed, naive, desperate to please, to feel needed because she saved me as well.

How I carried her for nine months — a girl. My girl. My heart carved into flesh.

How they took her. How they smiled at me, thanking me, praising my sacrifice… while my heart fractured in silence.

I told him about the moment I realized they were lovers — and that my presence was never about love, never about care, only convenience.

I admitted to him that I had forgiven them.Not for them. But the reason was simple: I wanted them happy.And yet… every time I imagined their joy with my daughter, my chest still ached.

Cassian didn’t speak immediately. He just let me continue. Each word a drop of poison and release all at once.

When I was done, a faint tremor ran through my fingers.

My eyes stung. I wanted to collapse, curl into myself, disappear.

Cassian reached out — slowly, cautiously — and took my hand.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he whispered.

I blinked. “I… I didn’t expect… anyone to listen.”

He shook his head. “I’m not just listening, Sophie. I see you. All of you. The pain, the strength, the courage it took to carry that girl… and survive this without losing yourself.”

Tears slid down my cheeks. I tried to blink them back, but he squeezed my hand gently, grounding me. “You survived,” he said softly. “You didn’t break. And you never will — because this isn’t the end of your story.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to cling to that reassurance like a life raft in a stormy sea.

Lucian watched from across the room.

Cassian with Sophie. The closeness. The gentle intimacy. The unspoken comfort.

And something inside him tightened.

Not just jealousy. Not just irritation. But a deep, raw edge — the feeling of someone else encroaching on a territory he hadn’t even admitted he wanted.

He clenched his fists subtly, forcing himself to step back, to not act rashly. Not here. Not in public.

But the fire in his chest wouldn’t dim.

Every word Cassian said — every gentle reassurance — stabbed at something primal. A need. A desire to claim, to protect, to ensure Sophie’s eyes only saw him when she sought safety.

And Lucian realized — he wanted that control. He wanted her trust. And he wasn’t going to get it by waiting politely.

Adrian also stood in another corner, observing.

He noticed the subtle tension in Lucian’s stance. He noticed Cassian’s gentle hand on Sophie’s. He noticed the faint tremble in Sophie herself.

He didn’t act. Not yet. But inside, a quiet calculation began.

Protect. Shield. Respect. Wait.

He had always been methodical, precise. And he knew that Sophie’s pain required patience, not conquest. That her trust would never be rushed.

Adrian’s heart ached quietly for her, the way someone who sees too much of the world aches — the ache of understanding both her past and her fragile present.

The gala ended. Lights dimmed. Guests departed. The city outside shimmered through the tall windows.

Cassian walked me to a cab, never leaving my side. He didn’t speak of the child again, didn’t try to explain or fix. He simply held space. And for the first time in years, it felt like someone truly saw me.

In the quiet of my apartment later, I traced my fingers over the edges of a photo of my daughter — tucked away in a drawer, kept for myself alone.

I whispered to the silence:

“My love for them didn’t disappear. Neither did the hurt.”

And for the first time, I let the tears come freely.

Cassian’s words echoed:

“You survived. You didn’t break. And you never will.”

I wanted to believe him.

I wanted to believe myself.

But healing, I realized, was not linear.

It would take time. Patience. Courage. And maybe, one day, the willingness to let others see all of me — not just the parts I allow.

The next morning, the three brothers convened in a private lounge at the office.

Lucian paced. His hands drummed on the polished table. Adrian sat, silent, observing, while Cassian leaned back, thoughtful but calm.

“She trusts me,” Cassian said softly. “She told me everything last night.”

Lucian’s jaw tightened. “Everything?” His voice was low, almost growling. “She told you… about the child?”

Cassian nodded. “Yes. And it broke her, Lucian. But not in the way you think. She survived it. She carries it with her every day. But she’s not broken. Not really. Just… hurting.”

Lucian stared, eyes stormy. “And you… you just let her tell you? You didn’t push her to hide it?”

“I didn’t need to,” Cassian replied. “She needed someone to see her pain, not judge it. Someone to hold her hand while she stood on the edge.”

Adrian finally spoke. Quietly, measuredly. “She’s extraordinary. But she’s fragile. And you both… tread carefully. Her past is a minefield. Don’t make it worse. She’s allowed to forgive. She’s allowed to love. But her scars… they exist.”

Lucian clenched his fists. “I don’t want to watch anyone else be her comfort.”

Cassian raised a hand gently. “It’s not about ownership, Lucian. It’s about care. Respect. Patience. Let’s all remember that. She’s not ours — she’s Sophie. She’s allowed to choose who she lets in.”

Adrian nodded, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Exactly. But make no mistake — she matters. And however this plays out… we need to remember that.”

Lucian’s fists relaxed, slowly. “She does matter,” he muttered. “More than I realized.”

Cassian exhaled softly. “We all know. And now we just… wait.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked to both of them. “Yes. We wait. And protect. In whatever way she allows.”

The tension in the room was thick. The unspoken truth hung over them — each of them drawn to her in different ways, and each aware of the delicate line between care and possession.

Sophie — Flashbacks and Reflection

Later that day, alone, I sat at my desk, staring at the city skyline. Memories surfaced unbidden.

I remembered the first time my mother asked me to be a surrogate. I was twenty-three, naive, eager to please, desperate to belong.

“I need you, Sophie,” she had said, voice soft but firm. “This child… it’s our chance. Our family needs it. And you can do this for me.”

I agreed. Because I always agreed. Because pleasing her had been my measure of worth.

I carried her for nine months. Every kick, every movement, every heartbeat… mine and hers intertwined. I imagined her eyes, her tiny hands, the first time I would cradle her.

And then they took her.

My mother. My ex-husband. Smiling at me, praising my courage, my selflessness, while I stood hollow inside.

I told myself I forgave them. I told myself I wanted them happy. I repeated it like a mantra.

But still, each time I imagined my daughter’s laugh, my chest constricted. Each imagined bedtime, each imagined story she heard… I wasn’t there.

The betrayal wasn’t in their actions alone. It was in the way they made me feel… invisible. Disposable. Used.

And yet… I survived. I existed. I worked. I built a life around myself that no one could touch.

Until now.

Cassian’s presence stirred something fragile inside me. Something I thought I’d buried. Something I almost didn’t want to feel again.

And yet… I wanted to let it in.

That night, after a late meeting at the office, I returned home.

The weight of the day pressed on me. Lucian’s stormy attention. Adrian’s careful observation. Cassian’s gentle understanding.

I cried.

Alone. On the floor. Hands covering my face.

I whispered my truth into the darkness:

“I carried her… I loved her… and now she’s with them… and it still hurts.”

Cassian’s voice came to mind: “You survived. You didn’t break. And you never will.”

I held onto that memory like a lifeline.

And I realized something profound: for the first time, I allowed someone else to see all of me. Not just the professional Sophie. Not just the capable Sophie. Not just the guarded Sophie. But all of me.

And it was terrifying.

But it was also… freeing.