Chapter Four – The Spill Heard Around the Room

SOFIA

Up close, Adrian Vale is worse.

Not worse as in ugly…God, no. That would be easier. He’s worse because he’s exactly what everyone says he is: expensive and untouchable, the kind of man who doesn’t waste words because he expects people to collapse under the weight of his silence.

And here I am, standing in the blast radius of that silence, trying not to fidget like a freshman called to the principal’s office.

His eyes rake over me, slow and deliberate, and I can feel my pulse pounding in places I didn’t know had pulses. I’m not sure if he’s cataloging me, judging me, or both, but the verdict isn’t going to be flattering.

Before I can catch my breath, my mother appears out of nowhere, all silk and panic disguised as poise. “Darling,” she trills, looping her arm through mine. “Come, come—your father and I need a word.”

My father’s hand clamps onto my shoulder like a vice, steering me away from Adrian as if I’ve accidentally wandered into oncoming traffic. I feel really stupid right now.

Their smiles don’t falter for the guests watching, but their eyes? Terrified. And I don't entirely get why.

Once we’re out of earshot, the facade cracks.

“Do you have any idea who that is?” my mother hisses, her nails digging crescents into my arm.

“That man,” my father growls low, “could ruin this family if you breathe wrong in his direction.”

I blink, heart pounding. They’re both talking over each other, and it feels like I’m standing in the middle of a storm I never saw coming.

“Listen to us,” my mother insists, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You smile, you nod, you do not provoke him. Understand?”

I want to laugh-because this is actually funny- or scream, or do anything at all. Instead, I just nod, because the look on their faces tell me there's no space for anything else. My father exhales like he has been holding his breath for house then plasters on a smile. Fake.

“Good girl. Now, come.”

And just like that, they march me back toward Adrian. He’s exactly where we left him, hands casually in his pockets, watching us return with the kind of composure that makes my stomach twist.

As if he already knows every word they just whispered.

The waiter appears at my elbow with another glass of wine, and I seize it like a lifeline.

My grip is a little too quick and a little too tight. In my rush to prove that I am not rattled, the glass tips, and everything slows. My eyes widen when I realise what I have done.

Dark red liquid arcs through the air like a slow-motion crime scene before landing squarely on Adrian Vale’s perfect, probably-custom, definitely-dry-clean-only suit.

“Oh my God.” Heat slams into my cheeks as I fumble for a napkin. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…”

The words tangle over themselves, spilling faster than the wine. But Adrian just stares down at me, without any expression on his face. And thats somehow worse.

“It’s fine,” he says finally, voice flat as polished marble. “Accidents happen.”

Except he doesn’t sound forgiving. He sounds… dismissive. Like I’m a mosquito that had the audacity to land on him.

And I should just let it go, wave it off, but something in me snaps.

“Actually,” I say, dropping the napkin onto the untouched corner of the table, “it’s not fine. You should probably get that cleaned before it stains. But don’t worry, I’m sure you can afford another one.”

The silence that follows is nuclear.

Around us, I hear the collective intake of breath, the sharp rustle of whispers starting like sparks. Because apparently, nobody talks to Adrian Vale that way.

His eyes lock on mine, colder now, sharper, like a blade testing the soft spot between ribs. For one terrifying second, I wonder if I just signed my own death warrant with a glass of merlot.

But I don’t look away.

If he wants me to be intimidated, he’ll have to work harder.

And judging by the ghost of something dangerous curving his mouth—not a smile, exactly, but close—he just might.

“Adrian, please,” my father blurts, already reaching for another napkin like it might erase the last thirty seconds. His laugh is thin and nervous. “She didn’t mean it. Sofia can be… spirited.”

Mom swoops in next, her hand on Adrian’s sleeve as if she can wipe away both the wine and my existence in one go. “We’ll cover the cleaning, of course. Or buy you a new suit. Whatever you need.”

I grit my teeth. God forbid anyone acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, he’s not a god descending among mortals. I should probably feel bad for spilling wine on the almighty Adrian’s shirt, but actually, I feel good, victorious even.

Adrian doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t even blink. His gaze stays fixed on me, as if my parents’ frantic groveling is nothing but background noise.

And that’s when it hits me, sharp and cold as the champagne in my glass:

I might have just poked a bear that everyone else is smart enough to worship.

My father finally wrenches me backward by the elbow, his grip just shy of painful. “Sofia,” he hisses through clenched teeth, the smile still plastered on his face for everyone else’s benefit. “What the hell was that?”

Mom’s still fluttering around Adrian, apologizing like a good sport. “Of course, Mr. Vale, our daughter didn’t mean—she’s tired, these events are overwhelming, you know how young people—”

He doesn’t answer her. Doesn’t answer anyone. He just keeps watching me as my father practically drags me a few steps away.

I catch the way people part as we move, like I’ve suddenly become contagious. Every head bent close, every whisper sharp enough to slice through the music.

My father stops near the edge of the ballroom, leaning down so his words are for me alone.

“Do you have any idea who you just humiliated? That man could destroy us with a phone call.” His eyes flick to Adrian again, frantic, then back to me. “You don’t talk to Adrian Vale like that. No one does.”

I cross my arms, chin up. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

He exhales like I’ve just stabbed him. “You think this is funny? You think this is some game?”

“I think,” I bite out, “that someone needed to do something. He’s not a god. And I wouldn’t have said that if he wasn't being such an asshole”

“Quiet.” His hand clamps tighter on my arm. “For once in your life, Sofia, just, quiet.”

Over his shoulder, I risk one last glance at Adrian.

He hasn’t moved. Still standing in the center of the ballroom, still immaculate even with the wine stain blooming across his suit. Everyone else is whispering, bowing, fawning—and he’s just staring at me. Not angry, not affronted. Just… interested.

The kind of interest that makes my stomach twist, because it doesn’t feel safe.

It feels like the beginning of something I’m not sure I want.