Chapter 3

"What other plans?" Colton asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous, quiet register.

"Personal ones," I said simply, and returned to my meal.

Victoria's eyes narrowed. "Sophia, the gala is a family obligation. You don't get to skip it because you have 'plans.'"

"With all due respect, Victoria, I've attended every family event for three years." I took a calm sip of water. "I think I've earned one night off."

Colton set down his whiskey glass with a sharp clink.

"We'll discuss this at home."

"There's nothing to discuss."

The ride home was silent.

Colton drove, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The moment we walked through the penthouse door, he turned on me.

"What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"That little performance at dinner." He loosened his tie with a sharp tug. "Embarrassing me in front of my mother."

"I said I had plans. That's not a performance."

"You don't have plans, Sophia. You never have plans." His words came out sharp, dismissive. "You stay home, you freelance on your little laptop, and you show up when I need you."

When I need you.

Not want. Need. Like a tool. Like a prop.

"Is that what I am to you?" I asked quietly. "Someone who shows up when you need them?"

Colton ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "Don't twist my words."

"I'm not twisting anything. I'm hearing you clearly for the first time."

He stared at me, confused. This wasn't our usual dynamic. Usually, I would back down. Apologize. Smooth things over.

Not tonight.

"Sophia, what's gotten into you?"

"Nothing's gotten into me. Something's finally gotten out."

I walked past him toward the bedroom.

"Where are you going? We're not done talking."

"I am," I said, and closed the door.

I leaned against it, my heart pounding. My hands were shaking.

But beneath the fear, something else was rising.

Resolve.

I pulled out my phone and texted Margaret: 「Papers almost ready?」

Her reply was instant: 「Draft will be on your desk by Thursday. Hang in there.」

Thursday. Three days.

I could survive three more days.

The next morning, Colton did something unexpected.

He was in the kitchen, making coffee. Two cups.

"Here." He set one in front of me. "Your usual. Oat milk, no sugar."

I looked at the cup, then at him.

He looked... unsettled. Like he'd been awake all night, trying to figure out a puzzle.

"About last night," he began. "I shouldn't have said that. About you not having plans."

I waited.

"You're my wife. I should be more... considerate."

The word sounded foreign in his mouth.

"Thank you," I said, picking up the coffee.

He seemed relieved. "So you'll come to the gala?"

And there it was.

The apology wasn't an apology. It was a negotiation.

"No," I said. "I won't."

Colton's relief evaporated. "Sophia—"

"Colton, I said no." I met his eyes. "That's a complete sentence."

I took my coffee and walked to the living room, leaving him standing in the kitchen, mouth open, completely thrown.

My phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

I answered. "Hello?"

"Is this Sophia Grey-Steel?" A woman's voice, silky smooth, with a practiced sweetness. "This is Reign Carter."

My blood ran cold.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you." She laughed lightly. "I just wanted to reach out, woman to woman. About the gala."

"What about it?"

"I heard you're not attending." A pause. "That's probably for the best, honestly. These events can be so overwhelming for someone who isn't used to the spotlight."

The condescension dripped from every syllable.

"But I wanted to assure you," she continued, "I'll take good care of Colton. He always gets so stressed at these things. He needs someone who understands his world."

I gripped my phone so hard I thought the screen might crack.

"Reign," I said, my voice perfectly steady, "you can have the gala. You can have the spotlight. You can have the champagne and the cameras and the red carpet."

"Oh, I intend to."

"Good." I smiled. "Because very soon, that's all you'll have."

I hung up before she could respond.

My hands were trembling, but my voice had been steel.

I opened my laptop and pulled up my freelance portfolio. Over the past year, I'd been quietly building a client base — logo designs, brand identities, website layouts. Nothing flashy, but steady work that paid well.

I checked my separate bank account. The one Colton didn't know about.

$47,000.

Enough for a deposit on a small apartment, three months of living expenses, and prenatal care.

Enough to start over.

Thursday couldn't come fast enough.