Chapter 217

Ethan bent down, scooping Sophia into his arms with deliberate intent. His voice was a low, teasing murmur. "Planes, cars—you must be exhausted. And frankly, darling, you smell like travel. A shower is non-negotiable."

Without waiting for her protest, he strode toward his bedroom, ignoring her frantic squirming.

Sophia’s breath hitched. The last time she’d been in this room, six years ago, it had nearly destroyed her. Now, he was carrying her back like a trophy.

She thrashed harder. "Ethan, I can wash myself! Put me down, or—or I’ll call the police!"

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. "The police? Really? A woman who owes me millions, trespassing in my home—do you think they’ll side with you? Or should we wake Lily and let her watch this little drama?"

Sophia froze.

Defeated, she went limp in his arms as he carried her into the bathroom.

The space was vast, sleek, and undeniably masculine—cold marble, sharp lines, and the lingering scent of his cologne. It wrapped around her, making her skin prickle with awareness.

Memories flooded back. Six years ago, when she’d been three months pregnant with Lily, she’d foolishly dreamed of marrying him.

She’d never hated him.

Deep down, she’d been achingly attached.

But she’d never admitted it.

There had been moments—brief, stolen ones—when he’d visited Aunt Eleanor in the hospital. Those quiet conversations, the way he’d sometimes glance at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

It had felt like warmth. Like hope.

Now, he set her on the edge of the vanity, his fingers brushing the hem of her shirt. Sophia grabbed his wrist, panic flaring. "Don’t—"

She couldn’t do this. Not here. Not after everything.

Not when he’d spent years hunting her, only to drag her back for revenge.

Ethan arched a brow, his voice dripping with mockery. "Why? Afraid you’ll seduce me again?"

"No! That’s not—"

"Not what?" He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Six years ago, you were the woman who played Nancheng’s elite like puppets. The infamous Sophia Montgomery, who could twist men around her finger. And now you’re shy?"

Her spine straightened.

Cold fury replaced her fear.

"Mr. Blackwood," she said evenly, "you’ve seen Lily. She looks exactly like you. A DNA test would prove she’s yours. Eight years ago, I was sentenced to a decade in prison. But after two years, I was paroled—thanks to Benjamin Thornton’s signed guarantee. A man like you could verify that with one phone call."

She held his gaze, unflinching.

"You know exactly when you were with a woman. That night, you had no idea it was me. And afterward? I was thrown back into prison. Until you—you—pulled me out. I thought the Thorntons had intervened. But no. They stole my freedom, my child, and my name—all to hand Lanita to you on a silver platter."

Her voice cracked.

"Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose everything and be called a liar for surviving?"

Ethan’s grip tightened imperceptibly.

Sophia barreled on. "Even if you’d known the baby was yours, you’d have hated her. Hated me. You’d have buried the truth. So tell me, Mr. Blackwood—how exactly was I the mastermind?"

She released his wrist, her balance wavering.

Ethan caught her before she could slip, his hands firm on her waist.

For a heartbeat, they were frozen—her breath ragged, his gaze unreadable.

Then he smirked.

"Six years, and you’ve grown claws."

She glared.

He leaned closer, his lips grazing her temple. "You said you wanted to marry me once. Do you know what marriage really means?"

Sophia’s pulse skyrocketed.

His mouth hovered over hers. "It means this."

In one swift motion, he lifted her, spun her around, and pinned her against the vanity.

Sophia gasped, her hands flying to his chest. "Ethan—what are you doing?"