Sophia Montague sank deeper into the velvet embrace of her penthouse sofa, the plush cushions doing little to soften the dull, pounding ache in her skull. Her eyes were shut tight as if warding off the fragmented flashes of chaos from the night before. Loud music. Flashing lights. The sharp shatter of glass. The sting of a cut, angry, faceless shouts. It was all a swirling mess, like trying to recall a nightmare through a haze of fog.
She groaned, dragging herself upright and pressing her fingers to her temples as another sharp pulse of pain shot through her head. Her gaze fell on her hand, the bandage wrapped snugly around it, stark white against her olive skin. Flexing her fingers, she felt the dull throb beneath the gauze. Not deep, but deep enough to remind her that her actions always left marks—on her body, her life, her name.
The knock on the door was soft but firm, breaking through Sophia's reverie. Moments later, Olivia Sophi's secretary stepped in, impossibly composed as always. Her tailored outfit was immaculate, and her expression betrayed quiet efficiency. In her hands was a tray—coffee and pastries—the perfect antidote for Sophia's morning mess.
"I thought you might need this, Ms. Montague" Olivia said, placing the tray on the table.
Sophia reached for the coffee, the ceramic warm and reassuring against her cold fingers. "Thanks," she murmured, blowing on the steam before taking a sip. "And for the last time, Olivia, please call me Sophia. This formality is exhausting."
"Of course, Sophia." Olivia allowed the faintest of smiles before continuing, "You should know there's some buzz online about the nightclub incident. Nothing too severe, but it's picking up traction."
Sophia exhaled heavily, letting her head drop back against the cushions. "How bad?"
"Mostly gossip sites," Olivia replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Blurry photos. A vague narrative. You know the drill."
Of course, Sophia thought bitterly. She was everyone's favourite spectacle, her life a never-ending carousel of scandals and scrutiny. She sipped her coffee, the bitterness mirroring her mood.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the girl. She'd spotted her just days ago on that kitchen tour her friend had insisted on—a lark meant to distract from the monotony of her days. One figure had stood out amid the clatter of pans and the sharp scent of garlic.
The girl.
Dark hair fell into her face as she scrubbed dishes with fierce precision, her hands moving in a rhythm that spoke of both determination and resignation. It wasn't her appearance that struck Sophia—they looked nothing alike—but the expression in the girl's eyes.
Sophia couldn't quite place it at first. But the longer she thought about it, the more it gnawed at her. It was a look she knew all too well: the weight of carrying too much. Of struggling to hold a life together that always seemed on the verge of slipping apart.
For a brief, fleeting moment, their gazes had met. The girl's green eyes had been filled with a quiet kind of defiance, as though daring the world to break her. And Sophia had felt a jolt of recognition, not in their features, but in their pain.
She's just like me, Sophia realized, her chest tightening at the memory. Not in who she was, or where she stood, but in what she carried.
The girl had quickly turned away, as if embarrassed to have been caught. But Sophia couldn't shake the image. Days later, it still lingered, stubborn and haunting.
Her phone buzzed, jolting her back to the present. Sebastian. She grimaced and answered.
"Hi, brother."
"Don't 'hi, brother' me," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through her lingering headache. "We need to talk."
Sophia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Can it wait?"
"It most certainly cannot." He was cold, clipped. "Do you know you're trending right now? Photos of you causing a scene—again."
"It wasn't a scene," she retorted, her patience thinning. "A photographer wouldn't leave me alone, so I—handled it."
"Handled it?" he echoed, incredulous. "You mean you gave them exactly what they wanted—another headline?"
The weight of his words settled on her. He wasn't wrong.
"I'm tired, Sebastian," she admitted softly, the fight draining from her voice.
"So am I, Sophia." There was a pause, then a sigh. "Just—stay out of trouble. And don't make me repeat myself."
She hung up without replying, staring blankly at the skyline. Somewhere out there, the girl with those defiant green eyes was probably scrubbing another sink of dishes, her life as tangled as Sophia's, but in a different way.
Olivia sat at her desk, her phone in her hand. Her fingers moved quickly over the screen as she typed out a message to Jasmine Harrington:
"All set on my end. Let me know if there's anything else you need."
The reply was almost immediate.
Jasmine Harrington: "Just stay sharp. We're almost at the finish line."
Olivia smirked, her fingers poised to set the phone down when another message came in.
Jasmine Harrington: "Make sure security is light on the 14th. I want everything to move smoothly. No surprises."
Her brows arched slightly, her fingers tapping out a brisk reply.
"Consider it done."
She placed her phone down with practiced calm, her face betraying no emotion. But her eyes glinted with something sharper, colder.
Lily Parker pulled the hood of her coat tighter around her head as she trudged home. The cold air nipped at her skin, a sharp reminder of the long, gruelling shift she'd just finished at Les Jardins. Her feet ached, her fingers were raw from hours of scrubbing, and no matter how many times she washed her hands, the scent of lemon soap lingered.
Her apartment building came into view, and her pace quickened—until she saw them. Two men, leaning against the entrance like they owned the place.
Her heart sank.
Jamie was there, too. Her brother, shoulders hunched, hands buried in his jacket pockets. His head moved in quick, nervous motions, glancing back and forth like a cornered animal.
Not again, she thought, fear surging in her chest.
She quickened her pace, but Jamie spotted her first. His eyes widened, and he muttered something to the men before leading them away, his tone placating. They moved down the street, disappearing into the shadows.
By the time Jamie returned, Lily was seated at the small kitchen table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"Who were they?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
Jamie hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Just some guys."
"Don't lie to me."
He exhaled sharply. "They're Matthew's guys."
Her stomach churned. "Matthew? As in the loan shark?"
Jamie nodded, his shame clear in his downcast eyes.
"What did you do?"
"I borrowed money a while back," he admitted, his voice low.
Her chest tightened. "For what?"
Jamie didn't meet her eyes. "It was... for drinks. Nights out. It got out of hand."
Lily's stomach twisted with a mixture of anger and disappointment. "Jamie," she said, her voice trembling, "you borrowed from Matthew to party? And now he's sending his men here?"
"I didn't think it would get this bad!" Jamie snapped, his voice defensive. "I thought I could pay him back before it got serious."
Her laughter was bitter. "Serious? Jamie, you brought a loan shark to our doorstep. Do you know what he does to people who don't pay?"
Jamie slumped into a chair, burying his face in his hands.
Lily's gaze shifted to the cracked ceiling, her chest tight with exhaustion and fear. There has to be more than this, she thought, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to let fall.
Across the city, Sophia sat in her penthouse, staring at the skyline, wondering the same thing.