CHAPTER 4
The private medical wing of the Castelmont estate was sterile and quiet, a stark contrast to the opulence of the main house. Sofia sat in the center of the plush, white bed, wrapped in layers of cashmere blankets, her eyes darting toward the door every time a floorboard creaked.
Damian sat across from her, his hands clasped tightly, fighting the urge to cry. He had hired the best trauma specialists in New York, and they had already confirmed his worst fears.
“She has been subjected to severe gaslighting and isolation,” the lead psychiatrist had told him earlier, his voice grim. “She believes she has no identity outside of the service Celeste demanded of her.”
Damian looked at Sofia. She was staring at her own hands, twisting her fingers nervously.
“Sofia,” he whispered, his heart breaking all over again. “Tell me what she did to you in Barcelona.”
Sofia’s voice, when she finally spoke, was raspy and hollow, like parchment paper rubbing together. “She told me you were dead, Damian. She showed me a fake obituary… she said the car accident was my fault.”
Damian’s blood turned to ice. He had spent three years searching, and all the while, she had been told he was gone.
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“She lied,” he said, his voice trembling with fury. “I’ve been waiting for you every single day for three years.”
Sofia looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a fleeting second, the old spark of life flickered in her eyes. “I thought… I thought I was alone.”
