Page 35

THIRTY-FOUR

SOPHIA

“ J ust open the box, Sophia,” I plead to myself, my voice trembling. My hand hovers over the lid, but the closer I get, the more violently it shakes. A frustrated groan escapes me, and I drop my arm to my side. “For fuck’s sake, Sophia. Open the damn box!” The words echo in the quiet room, more a demand than encouragement.

But I can’t.

I know why—I’m terrified of what I’ll find inside.

No matter how many times I try to reason with myself, my brain clings to that fear of the unknown. It’s just a box, I tell myself. It belonged to Dad. How bad can it be? But the gnawing feeling in my gut insists otherwise. Whatever is inside will change everything. That certainty makes my chest tighten, my palms sweat, and my fingers refuse to move.

It’s why I’ve avoided it for so long. Every time I think about opening it, my heart races, and worst-case scenarios flood my mind. What if it holds something I’m not ready to face? I end up distracting myself, finding anything else to do, pushing the box to the back of my mind. But it’s never really out of sight, not completely.

A sharp voice crackles through the phone speaker, pulling me from my spiral.

“Who do you fucking work for?” Maxim’s voice.

I freeze, listening intently. His tone is harsh, edged with fury.

Maybe Danny will finally crack, finally end this nightmare. I hold my breath, waiting, but the silence stretches unbearably. No answer. My shoulders slump in disappointment.

The sound of Maxim’s breathing grows heavier, more ragged, with each unanswered question. His frustration bleeds into every word, his patience running dangerously thin. He’s close to snapping—I can feel it, even from here.

I push my concern for Maxim aside and turn back to the box. It looms in front of me, its weight pressing down like a thousand unspoken truths.

“You can do it, Sophia,” I whisper. Just think of it like ripping off a Band-Aid. Quick and clean.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and steady myself. “I can do this. I can do this.” The mantra barely convinces me, but I cling to it like a lifeline.

With one final inhale, I reach out, yank the lid off, and fling it onto the floor like it’s on fire. The sudden movement startles me, but my eyes dart immediately to the contents.

The first thing that catches my attention is a white envelope with my name scrawled on it in Dad’s neat cursive handwriting.

My heart drums loudly in my chest, each beat echoing like a warning.

I grab the envelope, clutching it to my chest as if someone might burst in and steal it from me. My fingers tremble, and tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I cross the room, walk around Maxim’s desk, and sink into his chair.

His scent surrounds me—smokey caramel with a hint of vanilla and the subtle undertone of oak from his favorite whiskey. It wraps around me like a comforting hug, momentarily grounding me.

For the first time since I entered the office, my nerves settle, if only slightly.

I close my eyes and press the envelope against my chest. Then, as if the moment of calm has given me courage, I rip it open with a desperation I can’t explain. The paper inside crinkles under my shaky fingers as I pull it free.