Chapter Six: The Choice

Sophia's POV

I cried until there were no tears left. At some point, I found myself sitting on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the empty savings box that had once held every dollar I had sacrificed to save.

Three thousand dollars. Gone. Months of skipping meals. Months of wearing old clothes. Months of saying no to myself. Gone because of one man. My father.

The clock on my nightstand read 6:03 p.m.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweater and forced myself to stand. No matter how broken I felt, there was one person who still needed me. Mom. I couldn't miss visiting her. Not today. Especially not today.

The subway ride to the hospital felt endless. People moved around me carrying shopping bags and Christmas gifts. Families laughed together. Children pointed excitedly at decorations hanging from the station ceiling.

Meanwhile, I felt like my entire life was falling apart. By the time I reached the hospital, I had managed to clean most of the evidence of my breakdown from my face. Most. Not all.

When I stepped into my mother's room, she immediately noticed. Mothers always did.

She was sitting up in bed watching a cooking show on television. Some cheerful woman was explaining how to bake an apple pie.

The smell of hospital disinfectant mixed strangely with the image of cinnamon and apples on the screen.

Mom smiled when she saw me. Then her smile faded. "Sophia?" I froze. "What happened to your eyes?"

I quickly looked away. "Oh, nothing."

Her eyebrows lifted. Nothing. Right. The oldest lie in existence.

"It was probably an allergic reaction," I said. "There was a lot of dust near the subway entrance."

The lie came easily. Too easily. Lately, it felt like all I did was lie. To my mother. To my coworkers. To myself.

Mom studied me carefully. I hated how well she knew me. The television continued playing quietly in the background.

Neither of us spoke for a while. Then she reached for the remote and lowered the volume.

The room suddenly felt too quiet. "Sophia." I looked up. "Are you okay?"

Another lie sat waiting on my tongue. "Yes."

The word came out smoothly. Almost naturally. Mom sighed softly. She didn't believe me. I could tell. Still, she didn't push.

Instead, she asked another question. "Has your father come home yet?"

My stomach tightened. No. Not that question. Anything but that.

I forced a smile. "No."

Another lie. A terrible one. Because my father had come home. And when he did, he stole the last of my savings.

The money meant for her treatment. The money meant to save our home. The money meant to save us. The memory still hurts.

Mom nodded slowly. For a second, I wondered if she could see right through me. Maybe she could. Maybe mothers always could.

I stayed another thirty minutes, talking about meaningless things. The weather. Christmas decorations. Television shows. Anything except the truth.

Eventually, I stood. "I should go."

Concern flashed across her face. "You're sure you're okay?"

I bent down and kissed her forehead. "I'm fine, Mom."

Lie number four. She squeezed my hand. I could tell she wanted to say more. But she didn't. And I was grateful. Because if she asked one more question, I might finally break.

I left the hospital shortly afterward. By the time I reached home, it was almost eight o'clock.

The moment I stepped onto the porch, something felt wrong. The front door was slightly open. My heart stopped. I knew I had locked it. Twice. I always checked twice.

Slowly, I pushed the door open. And immediately saw him. My father. Lucas Hart.

He was sprawled across the couch like he owned the place. One leg rested on the coffee table. An almost empty bottle of beer dangled from his hand. His clothes looked dirtier than the last time I'd seen him. His eyes were bloodshot.

The smell of alcohol hit me instantly. Anger exploded inside my chest. "What are you doing here?"

He glanced up lazily. "Nice to see you too."

I slammed the door shut. "Why did you steal my money?"

The question wiped the amusement from his face. For a moment, he simply stared at me. Then he laughed. Actually laughed.

"So you have money hidden away, and you can't even help your own father?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "That money wasn't for you."

His expression hardened. "Then what was it for?"

"Mom."

My voice cracked. "It was for Mom's treatment."

He rolled his eyes. The gesture made me sick.

"Sophia, cancer can't be cured."

I froze. "What?"

"You're wasting your money."

I stared at him in disbelief. This was my mother we were talking about. His wife.

The woman who had spent years cleaning up after his mistakes. The woman who had sacrificed everything for our family. And this was what he had to say?

Something inside me snapped. "Get out."

He blinked.

"What?"

"Get out of my house."

The smile vanished from his face. Slowly, he stood. "This house belongs to me too."

"No." I pointed toward the door.

"Get out."

His eyes darkened. Then, before I could react— Slap.

Pain exploded across my face. I stumbled backward. For a second, I couldn't even process what had happened.

He had hit me. My own father. The room spun. But the anger remained. Stronger than ever.

"Get out," I screamed.

Instead of leaving, he stepped closer. The movement sent panic rushing through me.

I backed away until my hip collided with the kitchen counter.

My hand brushed against something. A knife. Without thinking, I grabbed it. The blade shook violently in my hand as I pointed it at him.

The room went silent. For the first time all night, my father looked surprised.

"Sophia..."

"Get out."

His eyes dropped to the knife. "You wouldn't stab me."

My grip tightened. "Try me."

The silence stretched between us. Then something changed in his expression. Maybe he finally realized I wasn't bluffing. Maybe he saw how broken I was. Whatever it was, he took a step backward.

Then another.

Without another word, he grabbed his jacket and walked out. The door slammed behind him. And I was alone. Again. Hours passed.

By the time I finally looked at the clock, it was nearly eleven o'clock. I sat on the couch staring into the darkness. Victor's deadline was approaching.

Mom's medical bills were still unpaid. The house was at risk. And I was running out of options. One million dollars. The number echoed in my head. One million dollars. Enough to save everything.

Enough to save everyone.

With trembling fingers, I picked up my phone. Ethan Blackwell's number stared back at me.

I pressed the call. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer. I ended the call. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he was ignoring me.

Maybe this was the universe's way of making the decision for me.

I stared at the screen. Then I called again.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then finally—

"Hello." His voice was calm. Deep. As though he had been expecting my call.

I closed my eyes. Every part of me wanted to hang up. Instead, I took a breath.

"I've agreed to the deal."

Silence followed. A long silence. Then Ethan spoke.

"Meet me at my office tomorrow morning."

The line went dead. I lowered the phone slowly. My hands were shaking. Because tomorrow, I will be signing a contract. A two-year marriage. One million dollars. A deal with the devil.

And I was about to sell my freedom to save the people I loved.