Page 37 of Claimed By the Enemy
Chapter Ten
Dom
Sophie walks back up the driveway carefully, her blue dress catching the porch light as she approaches. I watch from the doorway as she stops at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with an unreadable expression.
“Enjoy your evening?” I ask.
“Thoroughly.” She climbs the steps, brushing past me into the house. “Amara thinks you’re charming.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think you’re very good at playing a part.”
She’s right, but during dinner, I wasn’t entirely acting. Watching Sophie with her friend showed me something I’d never expected.
“You were different tonight,” I say, following her into the living room.
“Different how?”
“Lighter. When you were talking about your friendship with Amara… you seemed like yourself.”
Sophie pauses in the act of removing her earrings. “That was myself.”
“Was it? Because I’ve never seen that version of you before.”
“Maybe because you’ve never given me a reason to show it.”
Fair point. Since the day she walked into my office, our interactions have been built on lies, manipulation, and hostility. Not exactly the foundation for genuine moments.
“You majored in literature before switching to law,” I continue, remembering one of the stories she’d told. “You wanted to be a writer.”
“What’s your point, Dom?”
“My point is that maybe we’ve both been operating under false assumptions. About each other. About what really happened between our families.”
“I know what happened.”
“Do you? Because I’m starting to think neither of us knows the whole truth.”
She turns to face me fully, and I can see the walls going back up in real time. “I’m not interested in your revisionist history.”
“Sophie-”
“No.” Her voice is sharp, final. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“Sophie-”
“I’m going to bed.” She’s already moving toward the stairs. “Good night, Dom.”
I don’t go after her. Instead, I pour myself a glass of whiskey and try to reconcile the woman I saw tonight with the one I’m married to.
Both versions are real. Both are Sophie.
I’m three drinks in when I call Raff.
“Dom? What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
