Chapter 8

At the sound of Sophia’s name, the pen in Oliver’s hand stilled above the contract. His eyes darkened. “What about her?”

His voice gave nothing away.

Isla heard that nothing and sighed quietly. “Her legs couldn’t hold out. I wanted to ask whether she can rest now.”

Oliver set the pen down. His fingertip tapped once against the desk. “Did she come to you herself?”

“No. She never asked. She stood too long, fell, and hurt herself.”

Silence.

Then Oliver said, coldly, “I know.”

He hung up.

Isla looked at the dark screen again and decided, order or not, she was going to check on Sophia first.

Scarlet kept cheap employee housing nearby, usually shared four to a room, but Sophia had lucked into one with only one other girl. The other girl was working during the rush, so the room was empty when Isla arrived.

Sophia had already been helped back there to rest. She sat on the bed, pale and damp with sweat, her torn skin marked by tiny cuts where porcelain had bitten her.

When Isla came in, Sophia pushed herself upright with both hands. Even wrecked, she refused to let another person see too much weakness. Pride had not disappeared. It had only learned to hide under obedience.

Isla sat beside her and studied her face.

Sophia was only in her twenties, but the brightness that should have belonged to that age had been stripped out of her. In its place was a lowered gaze, careful shoulders, and the reflexive posture of someone accustomed to being punished for taking up space.

It made Isla’s chest ache in a way she did not welcome.

“Don’t work tonight,” she said gently. “Rest.”

Sophia had been bracing herself for punishment over the broken plates. Isla was Oliver’s employee. She had every reason to follow his cruelty down the chain. Instead, there was concern in her voice.

The kindness was so small it should not have mattered.

It mattered more than Sophia knew what to do with.

“Thank you, Isla,” she whispered, lowering her head. This time the gratitude was real.

Isla nodded. The front hall still needed her, and staying too long would raise questions. After confirming Sophia was conscious and stable, she left her propped against the bed to recover.

After the call ended, Oliver sat at his desk and lost the thread of the document in front of him.

What had Isla said?

Sophia Watson washing dishes in Scarlet’s kitchen. Sophia injured again.

Something lodged under his ribs, small and sharp. Irritation, he told himself. Disgust. Annoyance that she could still make people fuss over her by being pitiful.

He grabbed his coat from the chair and left the office.

By the time he arrived at Scarlet, a staff member led him to the residence door.

He did not knock.

The door slammed open under his kick.

Sophia jerked back so violently she nearly hit the wall. Pale, shaking, she folded herself into the corner like an animal that had learned hands meant pain.

She wanted to run. Her legs had no strength left for running. They barely had enough for fear.

Her eyes stung as she stared up at him. “Why are you here?”

The distance in her gaze landed wrong. Oliver’s mouth curved in a cold imitation of a smile. “To visit our second Miss Watson, of course.”

Sophia shivered under that almost-smiling look.

The old title should have been elegant. From his mouth, it became a blade.

She thought of his threat to make her work as a drinking companion and panicked. Her lips trembled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to skip work. Please don’t be angry. I can go back now. I can work.”

She tried to stand as she spoke.

All the strength had been wrung from her body. The moment her feet touched the floor, she collapsed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it...”

“Shut up.”

Sophia lifted her head.

The beautiful, untouchable face above her had been swallowed by rage.

She did not know what she had done wrong this time. Oliver had always been controlled, always cold. Seeing open fury on him frightened her more than the threats did. She lowered her head and buried her face against her arms, biting her teeth together as she lay on the floor.

“Sophia.”

Her name in his mouth froze her.

Oliver looked down at the woman curled at his feet. His voice was low and pleasant, and every word in it was poisonous. “The Watson family’s second daughter, sprawled at my feet like a beggar. If people saw you now, what would they think? What would Isabella think?”

Sophia’s body jolted.

The blood drained from her face.

She could endure Oliver’s torment. She could endure strangers’ contempt. But Isabella seeing her like this? Isabella knowing she had crawled this low? That she could not bear.

Oliver crouched and lifted her chin with two fingers, forcing her to let him inspect the damage his words had done.

“I’m not the Watson family’s second daughter,” Sophia said, lips white, eyes filled with pain. “The Watsons only have one daughter now. Isabella. I’m just a criminal who went to prison.”

Her voice cracked. “I’ve been punished. Please, let me go.”

She was looking at a face she had once loved so fiercely that one glance could make her foolishly happy.

Now she feared it the way a person feared a snake in the dark.

How had she become this?

Oliver’s eyes narrowed.

Anger moved under his skin.

Sophia hugged her legs to her chest and shrank into herself until she was no bigger than a frightened bird hiding in its own feathers.

He stared down at her, expression complicated in a way he did not permit to last. She was a miserable creature. A pitiful thing. Nothing like the Sophia in his memory, the girl who had stood bright and proud enough to make people look twice before they knew her name.

He did not believe that woman could have become this trembling, self-erasing ghost.

That was why he had come. To see it himself.

He did not recognize, not even for a breath, that it was his own long pressure that had bent her this far.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a bank card.

Then he bent, caught a fistful of her hair, and forced her to look at him. “Do you want me to let you go?”

Hope was dangerous. Sophia knew that. Still, it struck through her so violently that suspicion lost.

She nodded at once.

Oliver laughed softly. In another world, the sound might have been seductive. In this room, it was the devil leaning close enough to whisper.

“I’m not a charity,” he said, turning the card lazily between his fingers. “Why would I let you go for nothing?”

His gaze drank in the fear tightening her face, and something ugly and predatory stirred in him.