Chapter 37 — Shadows and Light

Sophie’s pov

The morning light felt like a betrayal. Sunlight poured through my apartment window, painting the room gold, and yet I felt anything but illuminated. My body ached in all the spaces where pain lingers silently. My mind was restless, replaying every word, every glance, every careful gesture from Cassian the night before.

I had shared my heart, the rawest part of me — my secret, the child I had carried for my mother and my ex-husband. I had forgiven them. I had even wished them happiness. And yet… the ache was alive, persistent, humming beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat.

The coffee I poured trembled in my hands, and I nearly spilled it as my phone vibrated.

A text from Cassian:

“Thinking of you. Don’t forget to breathe.”

I swallowed, a lump forming in my throat. I wanted to respond, wanted to say so much, yet feared my words would betray the fragile composure I had fought to hold all morning.

I am fragile, I admitted silently.

But I am still standing.

The office felt unusually quiet when I arrived. The familiar hum of keyboards and phones seemed muted. Maybe it was me. Maybe my perspective had shifted overnight, rendering every glance, every gesture, every whisper more piercing.

Cassian was already at his desk when I arrived. He smiled — that soft, easy smile that somehow anchored me — and gestured toward my chair.

“Good morning, Sophie. Sleep well?”

I shook my head, forcing a small smile. “Enough.”

“That’s good.” He said it lightly, but I could see the sincerity in his eyes. It wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t charm. It was recognition. He saw me. All of me.

Lucian arrived moments later. I felt his presence immediately, even before I heard his footsteps. There’s a way some people move that occupies the space around them; he did that. The air shifted subtly. He caught sight of me and paused, and for a heartbeat, his stormy eyes lingered just a fraction too long.

Adrian entered after that, his composure steady, measured, almost like a lighthouse in a storm. He noticed the tension — in the room, in me — and yet his reaction was subtle. A brief glance, a tilt of his head. Quiet observation. Protective, almost instinctively.

During at meeting, the three of them were in the same meeting as me, and I felt the weight of it immediately. Cassian at my side, Lucian across the table, Adrian at the head, calm and in control.

The discussion started with projections, charts, strategies. Business as usual. Yet the dynamic was anything but usual.

Lucian leaned forward, eyes narrowing on me whenever I spoke. Every sentence, every suggestion I made, seemed to provoke a subtle tension in him. He disagreed often, not out of critique of my work, but as though he needed to assert his presence — perhaps to measure how much influence I would allow in his sphere.

Cassian’s responses were gentle, acknowledging, validating. “That’s a good point,” he said softly each time Lucian interrupted or challenged me. “Consider the perspective, Lucian, but Sophie has merit here.”

Adrian’s contributions were quiet but firm, balancing the room. He ensured that I had the space to speak without being overshadowed, subtly commanding the room while allowing me to hold my ground.

I couldn’t ignore the way Lucian’s glare occasionally flicked toward Cassian — a silent war of ownership and attention I wasn’t yet ready to navigate.

After the meeting, Cassian suggested we step out for lunch. Just the two of us. His subtle insistence left no room for argument.

As we walked toward a quiet café nearby, I felt exposed. Every step was a reminder of the revelation I had made the night before — the child I had given, the forgiveness I had offered, the pain I still carried.

“Are you holding up?” Cassian asked gently.

I shook my head. “I… I don’t know. I thought I could, but… it’s still raw.”

He nodded, understanding. “It’s allowed to be raw. You’re allowed to feel everything. You’re allowed to not have it all together.”

I glanced at him, heart tightening. His calm presence, his patience, the way he never judged, never pushed — it was… disarming.

“I don’t want to be weak,” I whispered.

“You’re not weak,” he said quietly. “You’re human. And that’s more than enough.”

Across town, Lucian couldn’t focus on anything else. He replayed the moments from the gala, the words Cassian had spoken, the soft touch of his hand. He felt a flare of possessiveness, a sharp edge of jealousy he hadn’t fully acknowledged before.

Why did it bother him so much that Cassian had been there for her, comforting her, listening to her pain?

Because he wanted to be the one she leaned on. He wanted to be the one she trusted completely. And he hated that he didn’t already occupy that space.

Adrian, meanwhile, noted the dynamics quietly. He didn’t interfere, but his protective instincts were piqued. Sophie had shared her trauma with someone — Cassian — and he could see how deeply it affected her.

He admired the restraint Cassian had shown, the gentleness, but Adrian’s mind raced. She is fragile. She has already been betrayed. Any misstep — any misreading of her vulnerability — could break the trust she’s just beginning to build.

He made a silent mental note: watch, support, intervene only when necessary.

Evening — Sophie Alone

When I returned home that evening, I felt the exhaustion of the day settle over me like a heavy blanket. My heart raced, my mind spun with thoughts of the three men who had become such central figures in my life in so little time.

Cassian’s gentle support, Lucian’s stormy intensity, Adrian’s quiet protection — each pulled a piece of me in a different direction.

I sank into my sofa, clutching my knees, staring at the city lights through the window. I whispered softly:

“I forgive them… I forgive myself… but it still hurts.”

And yet, beneath that hurt, there was a glimmer of hope. Because for the first time, I had people who saw me. People who respected my pain. And perhaps… people who would help me rebuild the fractured pieces of my heart.