Chapter 4

Sophia's POV

I thought our conversation was over. I thought I'd made myself clear.

I was wrong.

My father waited exactly twelve hours before playing his trump card.

I was in the kitchen the next morning, mechanically stirring sugar into my coffee and trying to pretend everything was normal, when he appeared in the doorway. His face was calm, almost serene, which should have been my first warning.

"I've been thinking about our conversation yesterday," he said, settling into the chair across from me.

"And?" I kept my voice steady, though my hand trembled slightly around the coffee mug.

"I think I may have been too hasty in accepting your refusal."

"There's nothing to reconsider, Daddy. My answer is still no."

"Is it?" He tilted his head, studying me with those cold businessman's eyes I'd learned to fear. "Even if saying no means condemning your brother to death?"

The coffee mug slipped from my fingers, hitting the marble countertop with a sharp crack. Hot liquid splashed across my hand, but I barely felt the burn.

"What did you say?"

"Alfonso's medical bills, Sophia. They're quite substantial. The private room at New York Presbyterian, the specialist doctors, the experimental treatments..." He shrugged, as if discussing the weather. "All very expensive."

No. He couldn't be suggesting what I thought he was suggesting.

"Alfonso needs that care," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, he does. And as long as this family has resources, he'll continue to receive it." My father's smile was cold as winter. "But if we lose everything in this debt crisis, well... I'm afraid the state facilities are much less... accommodating."

Alfonso. My sweet, brilliant little brother, lying unconscious in that sterile hospital room for the past two years, his brain trying to heal from the traumatic fall that had stolen his future.

Two years ago. The timing wasn't lost on me. Two years since the accident that had changed everything, since the day I'd gotten the call that Alfonso had fallen from the fire escape outside his dorm room. Two years since I'd spent three sleepless days at his bedside, watching the monitors, praying for him to wake up.

Two years since the night I'd fled the hospital in a haze of grief and terror, ending up in some downtown hotel bar, drowning my sorrows in wine until a stranger with kind eyes and gentle hands had offered comfort I'd desperately needed.

Don't think about that night, I commanded myself. Not now.

"Alfonso is going to wake up," I said firmly. "The doctors said there's still hope—"

"The doctors said a lot of things two years ago," my father interrupted. "How much of it has come true?"

The cruelty of it took my breath away. This was Alfonso he was talking about. His son. My baby brother, who used to follow me around the house when he was little, who'd cried when I left for college, who'd been so excited to show me his new apartment just days before the accident.

"You can't be serious," I whispered.

"I'm completely serious." His voice hardened. "This family is drowning, Sophia. I can either save all of us, or watch us all go down together. The choice is yours."

I stared at him across the kitchen table, this man who'd raised me, who'd taught me to ride a bike and helped me with homework and walked me to school on my first day. When had he become this cold, calculating stranger?

"I have a fiancé," I said desperately. "Michael and I are getting married. Everyone knows—"

"Are you sure about that?"

Something in his tone made ice form in my veins. "What do you mean?"

My father checked his watch with deliberate slowness. "It's ten-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday. Tell me, Sophia, where do you think your devoted fiancé is right now?"

"He's... he's at work. At the financial firm—"

"Is he? I think you should go see for yourself."

The doubt he'd planted in my mind grew like poison as I drove across town to Michael's apartment. He'd been distant lately, I realized. Canceled dates, avoided phone calls, seemed distracted whenever we were together. I'd attributed it to work stress, but now...

Stop it, I told myself. Daddy is just trying to manipulate you. Michael loves you. You're getting married next month.

But my hands were shaking as I used my key to unlock his apartment door.

The sound hit me first. Soft moaning, the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, breathless whispers I recognized but couldn't quite place. My feet carried me down the hallway like I was walking through a nightmare, each step bringing me closer to a truth I didn't want to face.

The bedroom door was open.

Time stopped.

On Michael's bed—our bed, where we'd made love, my sister Isabella rode him like a woman possessed. Her naked body moved with shameless abandon, breasts bouncing as she ground against him, her face twisted in pure sexual ecstasy. Michael's hands were buried in her hair, pulling her down for a savage kiss as he thrust up into her.

The wet sounds of their coupling filled the room, obscene and undeniable.

They were so lost in their animalistic fucking that they didn't even notice me standing in the doorway, my world imploding in real time.

"Fuck, yes!" Isabella cried out, her voice high and desperate. "God, I've missed your cock so much. It's been torture watching you pretend to want that pathetic little virgin."

"Just a few more weeks," he gripped her ass. "Once I'm legally tied to the Cohen money, I can dump her and we can fuck whenever we want."

"Poor little Sophie, thinking you actually love her. If she could see how hard you get for me, how you beg for my pussy—"

The words shattered something inside my chest. A few more weeks.The family money. This wasn't some recent betrayal born of last-minute cold feet. This was a calculated, long-term deception.

"How long?" The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.

They sprang apart like they'd been electrocuted. Isabella shrieked, grabbing a pillow to cover herself. Michael scrambled for the sheets, his face cycling through shock.

"Sophia!" Isabella's voice was shrill with panic.

"How long?" I repeated.

Michael had the grace to look ashamed, at least. "Sophie, listen—"

"How long have you been fucking my sister?"

Michael's jaw tightened. "About a year."

"Why?"

It was Isabella who answered. "Because he deserves better than damaged goods."

I felt my face crumple. "Isabella—"

"Come on, Sophie." Michael's voice was cold now, all pretense of affection gone. "Did you really think I didn't know? About your little adventure two years ago? You think I wanted to marry a woman who gives herself away to strangers in hotel bars and has lost her chastity??" His lip curled in disgust. "You're not exactly wife material, are you? Not after spreading your legs for some random guy you'll never see again."