Chapter 1
High heels clicked sharply up the stairs, each step a brittle crack.
Sophie Grant pushed open the heavy wooden door to the study.
Theodore Winchester didn’t look up.
He sat behind the walnut desk, fingers tapping his laptop keyboard. The screen’s blue light carved the sharp lines of his profile.
“You had me followed.”
Her voice shook—not with fear, but with the anger burning in her throat.
Theo finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were the green of a winter lake: calm, icy, bottomless.
“David Miller.” He spoke the name. “Columbia Art History. Father’s a dentist in Brooklyn, mother teaches middle school art. Last Friday afternoon, he volunteered in the art section of Butler Library. Spent a considerable amount of time helping you find a reference book.”
Sophie’s nails dug into her palms. “You investigated him?”
“I was protecting you.” Theo closed the laptop and leaned back into the leather chair. Sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, haloing his blond hair. He looked like an editorial model. “I didn’t like the way that boy looked at you.”
“I don’t need your approval!” She took a step forward, her voice rising. “I’m in my twenties, Theo. I’m not your pet. I don’t need your permission to talk to someone, to—”
“To flirt?”
He cut her off. His voice was soft. Then he pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk.
Sophie’s breath caught when she saw the blue box. Durex. Twelve-pack. He unwrapped the plastic seal slowly, deliberately, as if opening an important document. The tear of plastic was sharp in the silent study.
“What are you doing?” She stepped back.
Theo took out a silver-wrapped condom and placed it on the desk. He tapped it with his fingertip.
“Educating you.” He looked up. “Here. Now.”
“You’re insane—”
“Or,” he reopened the laptop, fingers sliding across the touchpad, “we can discuss something else.”
He turned the screen toward her. Black background. White text. At the top, the FBI emblem. Below it:
Case Number: 09-4876-ALPHA
Persons Involved: Richard Grant & Aria Grant, née Park
Access Level: Tier-3 Confidential
Status: Special Authorization Required for Review
Sophie’s blood went cold.
“I acquired this recently.” Theo’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Your parents’ case. What do you think?”
She opened her mouth. No sound came out.
“Or,” he stood, rounding the desk, “we can continue our previous conversation.”
He moved closer. His six-foot frame cast a shadow that swallowed her whole. Sophie wanted to step back, but her feet were nailed to the floor. He reached out, cold fingertips brushing her cheek.
“Choose one, Sophie.”
She slapped his hand away. The sound cracked through the room.
Theo’s eyes darkened. Then he smiled. A smile without warmth.
“Fine.”
He grabbed her wrist. The force made her gasp. His other hand gripped her waist, pressing her entire body against the edge of the desk.
The wooden edge dug into the small of her back—sharp, biting pain.
“Then let me remind you,” his hot breath whispered beside her ear, “who you belong to.”
*
Downstairs, Mrs. Higgins paused in polishing the silver tea set.
A dull thud came from upstairs. Something heavy hitting a wall. Then came suppressed, intermittent crying. A woman’s. Quickly muffled.
The elderly housekeeper sighed, shook her head, and resumed her task. By the third round of polishing, the sounds had finally stopped.
She glanced up at the staircase. Silence. Thick, unsettling silence.
*
Seven o’clock the next morning.
Mrs. Higgins pushed open the study door. Morning light leaked through the blinds, cutting slender strips across the floor.
She began her routine cleaning. The vacuum hummed. While wiping the desk, her eyes caught the trash bin. She froze.
Three used silver wrappers, crumpled into a ball, lay atop the waste paper. They glared in the morning sun.
She was silent for a few seconds. Then she continued wiping the desktop.
*
Water splashed in the bathroom.
Sophie submerged herself in the hot water, her skin flushing red. She stared at the gaps between the tiles. Her eyes were dry and aching.
A knock. “Miss Grant?” Mrs. Higgins’ voice came through the door. “Are you alright?”
“Mhm.” Her voice was hoarse, unfamiliar.
The door opened a crack. The elderly housekeeper entered with a tray: warm milk and painkillers. She set them on the vanity, her gaze sweeping Sophie’s shoulders above the water.
Bruised finger marks. New ones overlapping old.
“He…” Mrs. Higgins began, then stopped. “Drink the milk while it’s warm.”
“Mrs. Higgins.” Sophie’s voice was soft.
“Sometimes I really wish he’d get hit by a car when he goes out.”
The housekeeper froze.
“I wish that damn Rolls-Royce would get smashed by a truck. I wish he’d lie in the ICU, never able to speak again, never able to touch me again.” Sophie turned her head. Her eyes were red, but dry.
“But I can’t. My parents are still in federal prison. They need him. Only he can get those documents. Only he…”
She choked. Mrs. Higgins walked over and knelt beside the bathtub. Her rough palm covered Sophie’s wet hair.
“I know, child.” The housekeeper’s voice was soft. “I know.”
*
When Sophie woke, she was lying in the king-size bed in his master bedroom.
She wore an ivory silk nightgown. Theo bought it. The tag read “La Perla”—the price of a month’s rent for an ordinary college student.
Sunlight shot through the gap in the curtains. She squinted. Her entire body ached as if taken apart and reassembled.
The door opened. Theo entered with a tray. White shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing well-defined forearms.
In this moment, he looked nothing like the man who had pressed her against the desk last night, whispering, “Remember who you belong to.”
“Awake?” He set the tray on the nightstand. Scrambled eggs, bacon, avocado toast, orange juice. Clearly made by his own hands.
Sophie didn’t move. He sat on the edge of the bed, slender fingers brushing the hair from her forehead. The gesture was gentle, as if handling something fragile.
“Still hurting?”
She just stared at the ceiling.
“I had the doctor prescribe ointment.” His tone was calm. “It’s in the drawer. Remember to apply it.”
Silence. Theo watched her for a moment, then rose and brought a manila envelope from the study. He placed it beside her pillow.
“Yours.”
Sophie finally turned her head.
She pulled out the contents—letters. Two handwritten ones.
The first had bold, forceful handwriting—her father’s:
“My dear Sophie,
We’re fine. Don’t worry. Your mother’s asthma has been better lately; the guards gave her a new inhaler.
Eat well at school, don’t stay up too late.
Love,
Dad”
The second was from her mother, a mix of English and Korean:
“To our daughter Sophie,
This week I read the painting theory you mentioned in your letter—very interesting. We can discuss it properly in your next letter.
Take care of yourself. Don’t make Theo angry; he knows what’s good for you.
With Love,
From Mom”
Sophie’s trembling fingers traced the envelope’s edge. The postmark date was a week ago.
“They…” She looked up at Theo, voice trembling. “You visited them?”
“Last Friday.” He stood, straightening his cuffs. “They’re doing well. Your father asked me to tell you he’s proud of you.”
“Why give them to me only now?”
Theo walked to the door, hand on the knob. He looked back.
“Because you need to remember, Sophie.” His voice was soft, yet like an ice pick to her heart. “Whose family took you in. Who pays for your Ivy League education. Who ensures your parents receive preferential treatment even in prison.”
He paused. “And who has the ability to… alter their sentences.”
The door closed softly. Click. The latch engaged, clear in the silent room.
Sophie stared at the two letters. The paper glowed a soft cream in the morning light.
In her mother’s handwriting, the name “Theo” was written with particular neatness, as if practiced repeatedly.
She clenched the letters. Her knuckles turned white.
Outside the window, the Manhattan skyline loomed faintly in the morning mist, glass curtain walls reflecting glaring light.
In the distance, treetops in Central Park swayed in the wind. Like the bars of a cage.
------
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