Sophia
...

The sheets are cool against my skin when I wake up, the space beside me  is empty. It feels weird because I'm used to having Frank there.

I sit up, the blanket slipping off my shoulders, revealing the luxurious silk sheets beneath.

My bedroom is a picture of elegance, with high ceilings and large windows draped in rich, velvet curtains. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, offering a lovely glow over the room.

The walls are covered painted white and a soft, cream-colored rug covers the hardwood floor.

My bed, a king-sized masterpiece with an ornate headboard, dominates the room. Beside it, a nightstand holds a designer lamp and a few books I probably won't ever read.

Across from the bed, a large dresser stands next to a walk-in closet, its doors slightly ajar, revealing rows of neatly arranged clothes.

Are those mine?

I glance at the clock on the nightstand, its soft light indicating  the early hour. I stretch, my muscles protesting slightly before I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

My feet sink into the rug as I stand, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders.

As I step into the hallway, the cool air greets me. The apartment is silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside and water running.

“Dana?” I call softly. No response.

The water keeps running, steady and loud.

I try again. “Dana?” Still nothing.

Is she here?

I wonder to myself, a prick of nervousness bubbling inside. This is the first time I'm experiencing this window where I'm all alone.

The silence is concerning.

I walk down the hallway and push open the door to Dana's room. The bed is neatly made, seems untouched.

The sound of running water draws me closer.

I tiptoe to the bathroom and gently push the door open, peering inside. I know I shouldn't but I just need to know she is in there.

Dana stands under the showerhead, her back to me, the water running over her skin. My breath catches in my throat. There are marks on her back—jagged, angry slashes, crisscrossing over one another.

They look faded, like old scars and raw around the edges.

My chest tightens. I feel a deep ache kick in at the sight of those scars.

But what shocks me most are the tattoos—black ink patterns winding through the scars, almost as if they were meant to hide them, to make them part of some design. Wings, thorns, and delicate flowers curl around the edges of the whip-like marks, transforming it into something beautiful.

I feel like I shouldn’t be seeing this.

Before I can pull away, Dana shifts.

I jerk back, holding my breath. For a second, I think she saw me—her head tilts slightly, and her shoulder shifts, as if sensing someone there. But she turns away from the door, letting the water hit her face, and I take my chance.

I stumble back down the hall, my heart pounding in my chest.

When I reach the kitchen, I drop into a seat at the island, trying to steady my breathing. I smooth my brown hair down and adjust my satin sleeping shirt, willing my hands to stop shaking.

Act normal. Just act normal.

I’m staring at the marble countertop when Dana walks in a few minutes later, dressed in casual slacks and a fitted white shirt—her usual style so far.

Her damp hair is slicked back, and there’s no trace of the woman I just saw under the water. She moves easily, as if she’s forgotten everything about that moment in the shower.

But I haven’t.

Her eyes land on me, and I force myself to hold still. She lingers for a second too long, her expression unreadable. My heart thumps painfully in my chest.

Did she see me? Does she know?

I look away before I can find out.

Dana moves to the stove without a word, pulling out a carton of eggs and some bread. She works quickly, cracking eggs into a skillet with practiced ease.

The sizzle of butter fills the air, and I salivate.

I tap my fingers against the edge of the table, pretending to be focusing on something else. But I can’t stop thinking about the scars—the way they seemed both brutal and deliberate, hidden but not erased.

“Hungry?” Dana asks, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.

I nod, though my appetite is gone. “Thanks.”

She sits across from me, sipping a black coffee, her gaze sharp but distant.

We eat in silence, the only sound the occasional scrape of fork against plate. I wonder if I should say something—ask her about what I saw. But the words get tangled in my throat, and before I can untangle them, Dana wipes her hands on a napkin and stands.

“Got something for you.”

She disappears for a moment, then returns with a sleek laptop tucked under one arm and a new cell phone in the other. She places them both on the table with a little flourish, like she’s offering a prize.

I blink, stunned. Back at the mansion, we never had things like this. No phones, no laptops—nothing that could connect us to the outside world.

“For me?” I ask.

Dana smirks, sitting back down. “Yeah. Time to get you up to speed. If you’re gonna blend in, you’ve gotta look the part. Do what every eighteen-year-old does—snap selfies, post memes, flirt in DMs, whatever. Make it convincing.”

I run my fingers over the laptop, the cool metal beneath my fingertips grounding me. It feels surreal, like holding freedom in my hands. But I remind myself not to get carried away.

They never do anything without a reason.

“There’s a catch, isn’t there?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Dana’s grin widens. “Of course there is.” She opens the laptop and boots it up. “You’ll have two accounts. One for the decoy—your life as a normal eighteen year old. All the brunch photos, and fake parties you can handle. The other account will be for business. Clients need to find you somehow.”

I swallow, nodding slowly, trying to process it all.

“What names should I use?”

Dana taps her chin.

“Well, you can’t just be Sophia everywhere. We need something... flashier to attract them and the other account can just be boring, plain, Sophia. Any ideas?”

We toss names back and forth, laughing over ridiculous suggestions—Sophia Diamond, Velvet Moon, Queen of Spades, The Sexy Flash. For a moment, the tension between us evaporates, and it feels almost like we’re just two friends joking around over breakfast.

I catch myself smiling, almost forgetting that she is my bodyguard not my friend.

“Maybe we should call you Sophia the Cherry,” Dana teases, nudging my arm.

I grin, forgetting myself. “And you can be Dana the Joker.”

She chuckles, a rare sound that makes my chest warm. But just as quickly as the moment comes, it’s gone. Dana’s smile fades, and the sharp, serious edge returns to her eyes.

“Alright,” she says briskly. “Enough playing around. We’ve got work to do.”

The shift in her tone is so sudden that it leaves me breathless. I know better than to push, but the question is still there, heavy on my tongue.

I want to ask about the scars, about what happened to her—and why she hides it. But I don’t.

Instead, I focus on the laptop in front of me, forcing myself to stay focused. There’s a line between us that I know I can’t cross.

Dana taps the table with two fingers, signaling the end of our conversation.

“Get those accounts set up by the end of the day.”

I nod, biting back the questions swirling in my head. Dana’s already moving, her mind five steps ahead.

And me? I’m still sitting at the island, wondering what secrets she’s hiding—and if I’ll ever get close enough to find out.

💫