I didn’t sleep.

Every time I shut my eyes, I saw it again—his hand gripping mine, his voice carrying across the gala hall, announcing me like I was some prize he’d claimed. The applause, the cameras, the whispers.

Engaged. To him.

By the time the morning sun spilled across the room, I was dressed and pacing like a caged lioness. The gown from last night hung off the back of a chair, mocking me. My new “accommodations”—his house, his rules—felt less like luxury and more like a prison.

I stormed downstairs, needing air. The garden stretched wide, impossibly manicured, like something out of a magazine. It didn’t calm me. Nothing could.

That’s when I saw her.

Sophia.

She was small for her age, a tangle of dark hair falling across her face as she scribbled furiously into a sketchbook. When she noticed me, she froze, eyes narrowing.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice sharp for someone so young.

I stopped a few feet away. “I live here now. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Her little mouth twisted. “No, you don’t. You don’t belong here.”

The words landed like stones. I swallowed them down. “I’m not here to replace anyone, Sophia.”

Her eyes flashed. “Good. Because you can’t.”

She slammed her sketchbook shut and stood, cheeks red, breathing hard. “My mom belonged here. Not you. You’re just—just—” She stomped her foot, searching for the worst word she could find. “Fake.”

The sting of it cut deep, but I forced a smile anyway. “Well, lucky for you, I’m terrible at being fake. So maybe you’ll get used to me after all.”

She blinked, surprised, like she hadn’t expected me to answer softly. For a second, I thought I saw something shift, like appreciation. Then she huffed, grabbed her sketchbook, and ran inside without another word.

I exhaled slowly, my chest tight.

I wasn’t angry at her. Not really. She was a child carrying grief heavier than most adults could handle. I could see it in her eyes—the way they clung to the ghost of a mother she adored.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

…

Later that afternoon, I found myself at the dining table, alone at first. The chandelier above glittered like ice, the silverware lined up with surgical precision. It was all too perfect. Like him.

When Pierson walked in with Sophia trailing behind him, the room seemed to shrink.

“Family dinner,” he announced, like the words weren’t absurd. It wasn’t even dinner time yet.

Sophia plopped into her chair and crossed her arms. She didn’t look at me.

I tried anyway. “I like your drawings,” I said gently. “What were you working on earlier?”

Her eyes flicked up, suspicious. “How do you know about that?”

“I saw you in the garden remember?You’re really talented.”

She scowled, but there was color in her cheeks now. “It wasn’t even good.”

“Then maybe you’ll show me next time and let me decide,” I offered, voice light.

She pressed her lips together, torn between snapping at me and secretly enjoying the compliment. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t storm off either.

Progress.

Across the table, Pierson watched us like a hawk. His expression unreadable, but his eyes were focused, darker and by the gods a little less cold.

I ignored him. I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it because Sophia deserved softness, not just discipline and control.

Even if she didn’t want me here.

Especially because she didn’t want me here.

…

That night, alone in my room, I sat by the window, hugging my knees. The city lights blinked in the distance, reminding me of everything I’d lost. My company. My freedom. My name.

But not myself. Not yet.

They thought they’d broken me. Pierson thought a public engagement meant I was trapped.

He was wrong.

I might not win today, or tomorrow. But I’d find a way. For Sophia. For me.

I wasn’t done fighting.

Not by a long shot.