A flicker of confusion passed through Sophia’s eyes as she looked up at Samuel.

Samuel, however, only offered a cryptic, faint smile before releasing her hand. Bewildered, Sophia withdrew hers, unsure of his intentions.

Nearby, Christopher’s expression darkened ever so slightly. The veins on the back of his hand, clutching his chopsticks, bulged visibly, but he maintained his composure. His demeanor softened as he picked up a piece of food and placed it onto Sophia’s plate with deliberate care.

“Thank you,” Sophia murmured, unaware of the tension emanating from Christopher.

Throughout the dinner, Christopher assumed the role of her gallant guardian. He deflected every offer to toast her, knowing she had an early surgery scheduled the next day and couldn’t drink. His protectiveness was steadfast, shielding her from the social obligations that would otherwise have left her frayed.

By the time the dinner concluded, the alcohol had visibly affected Christopher, his steps unsteady as they rose from their seats. A colleague, passing by, patted Christopher’s shoulder and, glancing at Sophia with playful regard, said, “Mr. Quinn is so attentive to Ms. York. Ms. York, you better take good care of him tonight.”

The remark left Sophia slightly flustered, a trace of awkwardness tightening her smile. Christopher, emboldened by drink, leaned toward her, his arm casually draping over the back of her chair. Their proximity, intimate and tinged with unspoken promise, drew a few knowing chuckles from those still seated.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Christopher said with a hazy confidence. “Soph is sweet and gentle—naturally, she’ll look after me.”

Across the table, Samuel’s expression turned to ice. The smile vanished entirely from his handsome face, and his dark eyes narrowed, shadows concealed within their depths. Rising from his chair, he cast Sophia a glance—cold, laced with disdain—before unleashing a derisive snort and striding away without a word.

Sophia watched, perplexed. She couldn’t fathom what had triggered his displeasure this time.

Still, her gratitude toward Christopher remained steadfast. He had drunk on her behalf throughout the night, shielding her from the pressures of the gathering. Left to herself, she might have stumbled over her words or, worse, succumbed to Samuel’s unpredictable provocations.

“Christopher, can you stand?” she asked gently, leaning over to steady him. When it became clear he was far too unsteady to support himself, she slid his arm across her shoulders, looping her own arm around his waist. With careful force, she hauled him upright and began guiding him with slow, arduous steps toward the restaurant’s exit.

Across the street, behind the tinted glass of a sleek black car, Samuel watched the scene unfold. His eyes darkened considerably as he saw Sophia’s arm circle Christopher’s waist, saw the way they leaned on each other as they staggered forward. The air inside the vehicle was suffocating with tension.

Behind the wheel, Carter, Samuel’s ever-reliable assistant, swallowed hard, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Glancing cautiously toward the restaurant doors, he attempted an interjection. “Mr. Yates, shall I assist Madam—”

Samuel didn’t answer nor take his eyes off Sophia. His silence was sharp, cutting.

Taking the cue from years of experience, Carter stepped out of the vehicle without waiting for permission, hurrying toward Sophia. “Madam, please, let me help,” he said, gently supporting Christopher before she could protest. Exhausted from her day, which had already included hours in surgery, Sophia didn’t resist. She quickly flagged down a passing taxi.

Carter hoisted Christopher into the backseat, while Sophia slid into the front passenger side. She nodded her thanks. “To Seasons Crest Hotel,” she instructed the driver before the car pulled away into the night.

Watching the taxi disappear, Carter returned to Samuel’s car, his steps hesitant. The glare that greeted him from the backseat could have frozen fire. If the weight of Samuel’s fury wasn’t apparent before, it was now inescapable. Carter got into the driver’s seat without a sound. The chill in the air made every nerve in his body scream for caution.

At Seasons Crest Hotel, Sophia managed to coax Christopher out of the taxi, every step a battle against his weight and drunken swaying. By the time she navigated him through the lobby, he could hold himself no longer. He slumped forward and retched, the acrid smell of vomit filling the air.

The sight and stench sent Sophia’s stomach churning. She turned away, dry-heaving uncontrollably. Normally composed, tonight she may have reached her limit.

The hotel manager, recognizing Christopher as a Quinn family scion, rushed to their aid. Staff ushered Christopher away, helping him to a suite on the upper floor. Noticing Sophia’s disheveled state—her clothes tainted with the very evidence of Christopher’s drunkenness—the manager dispatched a concierge to bring her a clean set of clothes. They escorted her to a vacant room so she could wash.

Despite the shower and fresh clothing, the phantom stench lingered in Sophia’s senses. She emerged pale and unsteady, swearing she could feel it still clinging to her.

“Ms. York,” the manager urged delicately. “Why not stay the night? We have plenty of suites available—”

Sophia shook her head, cutting him off with quiet insistence. “I have work tomorrow. My patient files are at home.”

Her refusal was followed by a polite exit, though by now she felt thoroughly drained. Outside, the night air helped only slightly, the cool breeze soothing her roiling nausea.

Carter sat in the driver’s seat of Samuel’s car, his every movement deliberate and subdued. Through the rearview mirror, he chanced a glance at his employer. Samuel’s gaze, fixed on the hotel entrance, was razor-sharp, his jaw clenched tightly.

When Sophia emerged—forty minutes after entering the hotel—with damp hair and a fresh set of clothes, no reasonable person could have mistaken the implication of what had transpired. Carter dared not breathe.

“Drive,” Samuel commanded, his voice cutting and low.

The vehicle sped away.

Sophia, oblivious to the watchful car, waited on the curb until another taxi arrived. It wasn’t until she returned home, slipping her shoes off in the dimly lit entryway, that she froze, startled by what awaited her.

Samuel sat in the living room, his posture rigid, his expression as cold and severe as the silence blanketing the space. Since their falling-out last month, he hadn’t set foot in this house—not even when he’d dropped her off that day. Yet here he was now, a storm brewing in his eyes.

“Come here,” he said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.

Sophia hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve. Finally, she stepped forward, the weight of his gaze pressing upon her. “Is there—something...” she began, but her words faltered beneath the chill of his interruption.

“Take off your clothes,” Samuel commanded, the words steely, unforgiving.

She stiffened. For a heartbeat, she simply stared at him, struggling to comprehend. When the implication struck, her expression faltered. “You think I was with Christopher?” she asked, disbelief laced with quiet reproach.

Before Samuel could respond, Lily, one of the household staff, rushed forward, attempting to diffuse the tension. “Young Master, surely this is a misunderstanding. Madam would never—”

“Take. Them. Off,” Samuel cut her off, his tone edged with simmering fury.

Sophia’s lips tightened as she pulled in a slow breath. Without another glance at him, she began unbuttoning her blouse, each movement deliberate.

“Madam, stop,” Lily pleaded, her voice almost desperate as she grabbed Sophia’s wrist.

Sophia gently shook her off. “It’s alright, Lily. We’re both women. I don’t mind.”

She resumed, sliding the fabric from her shoulders. Her fair skin glowed under the dim light, exposed and vulnerable. Yet her defiance burned brightly in her eyes, unyielding even under Samuel’s unrelenting scrutiny.

A harsh, bitter line twisted his mouth. Samuel shot up from the couch, grabbing his jacket from the rack and draping it abruptly over her shoulders. His grip on the fabric was firm, even as he leaned in, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper.

“Sophia,” he said, his eyes dark as night, “remember your place.”