“This is my favorite part,” Sophia says, the lift in her voice pulling me from my snowballing thoughts.
She’s why I’m here.
But I’m keenly aware of him—sitting just inches away, quiet and watchful. The steady drumming of his fingers on his knee feels like the ticking of a bomb. I pick up the hot chocolate, myhand shaking. The warmth seeps through my skin, but it does little to thaw the ice of his stare.
Only days ago, I was cuddled up on this very couch with him. His body wrapped around mine, his laughter rumbling in my ear. Now, he feels like a stranger.
And it’s my fault. I just don’t know how to fix it if he won’t even talk to me.
When the movie ends, Sophia shifts in her seat, her fingers twisting the corner of the pillow. As much as the film provided a brief distraction, whatever happened at that party still has its grip on her. My heart aches to see how deeply Marshall’s actions have crushed her vibrant spirit, turning her anger inward.
“Do you want to talk about that night?” I venture gently, careful not to push.
Chaz stops tapping, his disapproval like a heatwave. “Soph, you don’t have to,” he cuts in sharply.
“That’s true, you don’t,” I agree, forcing the calm in my voice and focusing entirely on her. “But I’ve read that the more you talk about something traumatic, the less power it has over you. In time, it becomes this terrible thing that happened, but it doesn’t define or control you. Does that make sense?”
Nodding, she sits up, the pillow still clutched to her chest. “It’s just . . . so embarrassing. I feel so gullible.”
“Men like Marshall are master manipulators. They prey on trust. You weren’t gullible,” I say. “You admired him, and he took advantage of that.”
Her lips press together, unconvinced, but after a moment, she exhales a tremulous breath. “I don’t even know where to start. When I told C, it just all came tumbling out.”
“Start wherever it feels right,” I encourage, giving her hand a light squeeze.
She takes another deep breath and then begins. “After the dinner, I told you about, Chloe and I were approached by someone from Ignite.”
“Who?”
“A woman. Um . . . Lauren or Laurel. Something like that.”
Laurel. Marshall’s right hand. I file the name away.
“She asked if we wanted to attend an exclusive event Ignite was hosting. She said Drew would be there—that he would be using it to scout for talent. I should’ve clued in, but at the time, it sounded like it could be my big break.”
“Of course, it did. You had no reason to think anything was wrong. Tell me about the party.”
She describes arriving at a penthouse, where phones were confiscated and NDAs were required. The room, she says, was crowded, making it hard to distinguish guests from staff. She noticed six to eight other young women around her age.
“I didn’t drink much. Just one glass of the punch they were serving. It was strong, though. I couldn’t even finish it, but there was always someone there trying to refill my glass.”
Her story matches the complaint so far.
“Did you notice any drugs?”
She shakes her head. “No, but maybe I wasn’t paying attention.”
“That’s okay. Where was Chloe?”
Her gaze drops to her lap. “She didn’t want to come. I know—I shouldn’t have gone alone.”
“No one’s blaming you,” I say, redirecting her eyes back to mine. “When did you meet Marshall?”
“About thirty minutes in, that woman—Laurel or whatever—pulled me aside and introduced me to him. I was so nervous, but he seemed nice. At first.” Her voice cracks, and she clutches the pillow tighter. “He asked me about school, my interest in advertising, the usual stuff. I told him how much I admired hiswork. I even gave him examples of campaigns I loved so he’d know I’d done my homework. When he said he was impressed and wanted to continue our conversation somewhere quieter, I didn’t think twice.”
Her voice falters, and I lean in. “You’re doing great, Sophia. Can you keep going?”
She nods and takes another breath. “He led me upstairs to one of the rooms. It had a living area, but through the double doors, I saw a bedroom. God, that was so dumb.”
