8. Sofia

8

SOFIA

I fidget with the hem of my black evening gown, tuning out Paulie’s latest critique about my weight as we navigate the crowded ballroom. The champagne in my glass remains untouched—my mind keeps drifting to Tyson’s heated kiss in the big top.

“Are you even listening?” Paulie’s fingers dig into my arm. “I said you should skip dessert tonight. That dress is looking a bit snug.”

“I heard you the first three times.” I pull away from his grip, earning a disapproving look from my father across the room.

“Watch your tone.” Paulie’s breath reeks of scotch as he leans in close. “You’re making me look bad in front of potential business partners.”

I force a smile as another couple approaches. Paulie launches into his rehearsed speech about our upcoming wedding, his hand possessively gripping my waist. I nod at all the right moments while my thoughts wander to strong arms wrapped around me, the intoxicating scent of leather and tobacco.

“My beautiful fiancée is just shy,” Paulie announces to our latest audience. “Though she could stand to hit the gym more before the wedding, right honey?”

The couple laughs awkwardly. My cheeks burn as I take a large gulp of champagne, wishing I was anywhere else. Wishing I was back in that tent, Tyson’s fingers tangled in my hair...

“Stop daydreaming.” Paulie pinches my side. “You’re embarrassing me again. At least try to look interested when I’m talking business.”

I force another fake smile as he drags me to the next group, already launching into the same tired story about how we met—conveniently leaving out that it was an arranged marriage. My father catches my eye across the room and gives me a stern nod. I straighten my spine and play my part, all while my mind rebels against this gilded cage he’s built around me.

Dad strides over, his presence commanding instant respect. Paulie’s grip on my waist loosens, his demeanor shifting to that of the perfect gentleman. The transformation would be impressive if it wasn’t so nauseating.

“Princess, you look beautiful tonight.” Dad kisses my cheek. “Shall we head to our table? The first course will be served soon.”

I catch Paulie’s eye twitch when Dad uses his pet name for me. Good. Let him stew.

“Of course, Daddy.” I slip my arm through him, grateful for the break from Paulie .

The crystal chandeliers sparkle overhead as we weave between tables draped in cream silk. Everyone who matters in Dawsbury is here tonight, dressed in their finest, playing their parts in this elaborate performance. I’ve been doing this dance since I was old enough to walk—charity galas, business dinners, and social events where alliances and deals are made behind practiced smiles.

But tonight feels different. As I sit between Dad and Paulie, my thoughts drift to rough hands and a piercing gaze that sees right through my carefully constructed facade. Tyson didn’t care about my family name or social status. He wanted me—the real me, curves and all.

Paulie naturally orders my meal—a salad—while discussing business with Dad. I push lettuce around my plate, remembering how it felt to be truly desired and looked at with raw hunger instead of criticism.

Could I really walk away from all this? From the expectations, the criticism, the arranged marriage to a man who sees me as nothing more than an accessory to be used and bred?

The weight of my father’s empire sits heavy on my shoulders as waiters glide past with plates of food I’m not allowed to eat. But for the first time in my life, I wonder if there might be another path leading away from these suffocating ballrooms and toward a life that’s mine.

I stab another piece of lettuce, lost in thought. Sure, there are perks to being Jimmy Moretti’s daughter—the weekly spa treatments, shopping sprees at Gucci and Prada, and my closet full of Louboutins. Just yesterday I dropped five grand on a handbag without blinking.

But what good is all that when I can’t even order my meal? When every bite I take is scrutinized? When my future has been decided for me?

And when Paulie’s not around I gorge myself on chocolate or pizza—something I never did before meeting him. Sure, I’d eat chocolate or pizza occasionally and not secretly. I feel so guilty afterward. I’m well aware I’ve got an eating disorder and use food as my coping mechanism, but I doubt I’d need it if I wasn’t controlled constantly by my husband-to-be.

My phone vibrates in my clutch. Paulie is deep in conversation with Dad about some business deal, so I carefully slide it out, angling the screen away from prying eyes.

A message from Tyson makes my heart skip:

Why’d you run? I was nowhere near finished with you.

Heat floods my cheeks as memories of his kiss flood back and the way his hands gripped my hips, how his tongue...

“Who are you texting?” Paulie’s sharp voice cuts through my thoughts.

I quickly lock the screen and slip the phone away. “Just Sasha, about our spa day tomorrow.”

He narrows his eyes but returns to his conversation with Dad. I release a shaky breath, pushing food around my plate while my phone burns a hole in my purse.

Tyson’s message weighs heavy on my mind and thoughts of freedom beyond these suffocating walls. Freedom that is too far out of my reach to ever become a reality.