Page 62 of Inheritance
"You should wait for the doctor to tell you that."
I reached for her, pulling her close. Her warmth melting into me as I buried my face against her chest, breathing deeply. "Trust me. I feel great," I murmured.
She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching mine. There was a playfulness there with the concern, quickly strained by something harder.
"Something’s on your mind. What is it?" I asked, testing the strength of my legs as I swung them off the bed. A jolt of pain shot up my spine, but I held firm, steady.
"It’s nothing," she said—too quickly.
"Tell me," I insisted.
She blinked, looked away, then looked back. "Caroline loves Ivan."
I let out a disbelieving laugh. "No."
"She does," Sophia said firmly, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
I shook my head. "No. She’s just—" I gestured vaguely, unable to find the words to write this off. Frustration prickled at me.
She didn’t respond. Her silence was answer enough.
I rubbed a hand over my face, considering the possibility she actually did love him. "Talk to her. Find out everything—whatshe’s thinking, how she feels. Plant seeds of doubt, if you can. I’ll deal with her myself later."
"But—"
"Go."
She hesitated, her reluctance written plainly across her face, before finally nodding.
I watched her walk away, smiling despite the pain. She wasn’t broken.
Sophia
Caroline’s door loomed at the end of the hall, its edges glowing faintly in the dim light. Her muffled sobs leaked through the cracks—soft, but unmistakable. My fingertips brushed the doorframe as I paused, listening. It felt wrong to intrude, but I couldn’t just walk away. I raised my hand and knocked gently.
The crying stopped, leaving an uncomfortable stillness in the air. I waited, then knocked again. The door creaked open just a crack, revealing part of her face—tear-streaked and framed by messy strands of dark hair. Her mascara had run in uneven smudges beneath her eyes, giving her a ghostly, haunted look.
“Can I come in?” I asked softly.
She sniffled, swiping at her nose with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She stepped back, letting the door swing open.
I hesitated before stepping inside. Her room was smaller than I expected but cozy in its own way. An old armchair sat in the corner, books piled haphazardly on the nightstand. An open suitcase lay by her closet, packed so high it couldn’t possibly zip. Lavender-scented candles flickered on the dresser. Her bed was chaos—a tangle of crumpled tissues, blankets, and pillows that seemed to swallow her as she climbed back into it.
I sat beside her. She turned her face away, brushing at her cheeks.
“I just wanted to check on you. I know you must feel… overwhelmed,” I began, keeping my voice low.
She let out a bitter laugh—sharp, humorless.
“Everyone thinks they know what I’m feeling. They talk about me like I’m some fragile doll, broken beyond repair.”
I frowned. “They’re just trying to help. They care about you.”
“They’re hypocrites,” she snapped, turning to face me. Her eyes, red and puffy, blazed. “I know you don’t understand why I love him. I barely know you—actually, I don’t know you at all—but I know your story. You were living a normal life a few months ago, and now you’re with Gabriel. So tell me, how can you love someone like him and look at me like I’m crazy for loving Ivan?”
“I’m not looking at you like you’re crazy, it’s just?—”
“Imagine someone dragged you away from Gabriel,” she continued, her voice rising. “If they told you he was a monster, that his heart was evil—would you stop loving him because of what they said? Even if it were true?”
