17
SOPHIA
The morning sun filters through the guest bedroom curtains, casting soft golden light across Melinda’s battered face.
I’ve been awake all night, sitting in the chair beside her bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Every breath she takes feels like a small miracle after what Adrian put her through.
Mikhail sat with me for a while last night but ultimately left me alone to deal with my best friend.
Her good eye flutters open, and I’m on my feet immediately, reaching for the water glass on the nightstand.
“Hey,” I whisper, helping her sit up against the pillows. “Take it slow.”
She winces as she moves, her split lip cracking slightly. “Sophia.” My name comes out hoarse, damaged. “How long have I been out?”
“About twelve hours. The doctor said you needed rest.” I press the glass to her lips, and she drinks gratefully. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” She manages a weak smile that doesn’t reach her swollen eye. “But alive. Thanks to you and him.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. “Mel, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t called you?—”
“Stop.” Her hand finds mine, squeezing with surprising strength. “You didn’t do this to me. Those monsters did.” She pauses, her expression darkening. “Sophia, I need to talk to Mikhail. There are things you both need to know.”
Something in her tone makes my blood run cold. “What things?”
“Just…get him. Please.”
I find Mikhail in his study, staring at the wall of photographs of Nicole.
He hasn’t changed clothes since yesterday, his shirt still stained with Adrian’s blood, telling me he’s been awake all night too.
When he hears me enter, he turns, and the exhaustion in his green eyes is soul deep.
“Melinda’s awake,” I say. “She needs to speak with you. Both of us.”
He’s on his feet immediately, following me back to the guest room.
Melinda struggles to sit up straighter when she sees him, and I notice the way she flinches slightly.
Even knowing he saved her, she’s still afraid of him. I can’t blame her.
“Mrs. Artyomov said you have information for me.” Mikhail’s voice is carefully neutral as he emphasizes my new married name, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
Melinda’s eyes widened, and she glances at me in surprise. Her eyebrows raise, but then she shakes her head slightly, as if to clear her thoughts, and turns to Mikhail.
“It’s about your sister, Nicole,” she says, and Mikhail goes completely still. “And about Sophia’s father. About what really happened that night.”
I sink into the chair beside the bed, my heart hammering. Mikhail remains standing, his hands clenched at his sides.
“When Adrian’s men had me,” Melinda continues, her voice shaking, “they talked. They didn’t think I’d survive to tell anyone, so they didn’t bother being careful.” She looks at me, tears welling in her good eye. “Sophia, your father…he wasn’t one of the men who raped Nicole.”
The words don’t make sense at first. I stare at her, trying to process what she’s saying. “What?”
“He was there that night, but he was trying to stop it. He tried to save her.” Melinda’s tears spill over. “Adrian and his men were laughing about it. About how they framed Vincent Moretti, made it look like he was part of it when he was actually trying to rescue her.”
The room tilts around me. I grip the arms of the chair, my knuckles white. “That’s not possible. Mikhail showed me?—”
