Sophie’s POV
Lolita's text comes the next morning: ‘Coffee? Two women who care about Adrian should talk.’
I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the delete button. Every instinct screams this is a trap, but curiosity wins over caution. I need to understand the woman who shaped Adrian into what he is.
I text back: ‘When and where?’
Her response is immediate: ‘That lovely café on Fifth. Two PM?’
When I tell Bellamy where I'm going, his expression darkens. "You're not going alone."
"I wasn't planning to." I'm done going anywhere alone after the paparazzi incident. "You're coming with me."
"As your guard or your chaperone?"
The question catches me off guard. "Does it matter?"
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. "Yes."
We don't discuss what he means—not now, not ever.
***
The café is upscale, the kind where coffee costs more than a meal and everyone speaks in hushed tones. Lolita is already there, occupying a corner table like she owns the place.
She's dressed impeccably—silk blouse, designer sunglasses pushed up into her hair, the kind of effortless elegance I'll never achieve.
"Greetings, little lamb." She gestures to the seat across from her. "So glad you came."
Bellamy positions himself at a separate table across the café, pulls out a newspaper, and pretends to read. But I can feel his attention on us, constant and vigilant.
I slide into the chair. "What did you want to talk about?"
"So direct." Lolita smiles, amused. "Americans. Always rushing to the point." She signals the waiter. "Order something. On me."
I request a latte I don't want, Lolita orders something complicated in French.
We make small talk while we wait. Her questions feel like reconnaissance disguised as concern, each one carefully calibrated to extract information.
"Amelia is lovely," Lolita says when our drinks arrive. "She'll be stunning when she grows up."
The clinical assessment makes my skin crawl. "She's three months old."
"Never too early to recognize potential." Lolita sips her coffee with delicate precision. "Speaking of potential—how are things with Adrian? The domesticity must be quite an adjustment for him."
"We're managing."
"Are you?" She tilts her head, studying me. "Because from what I observed the other day, 'managing' seems generous."
I set down my cup with more force than needed. "Is this about the debt? The favor I owe you? Because if you're just here to hold that over my head…"
"Oh, Sophie." Lolita's hand flies to her chest in mock offense, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. "How could you think of me like that?"
The performance is so transparent she's not even trying to hide it. I can see the amusement dancing in her eyes.
"I simply wanted to have coffee with my favorite little lamb, that’s all."
Her voice is dripping with false sincerity, and then her expression shifts back to its usual calculation.
"But now that you mention it—thank you for the reminder." She smiles, genuine this time. "You owe me a favor. For the information about Adrian's past. I haven't forgotten."
My chest tightens. "I remember."
"Good." She smiles. "The time hasn't come yet for me to collect, but when it does, I'll expect you to honor our agreement."
"Why tell me this now?" I ask. This woman owns a piece of my future, and I have no idea what she'll demand in return.
"Consider it a friendly reminder." Lolita's eyes drift past me to where Bellamy sits. "Things seem to be... shifting. I want to make sure you remember your priorities."
I follow her gaze, then snap my attention back. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Has something changed between you and Bellamy?" The question is casual, curious rather than accusatory. Which somehow makes it worse.
Heat floods my face. "Nothing's changed. He's security, that's all."
"Mm." Lolita studies me with that sharp intelligence that misses nothing. "You're blushing, darling. That tells me everything I need to know."
"There's nothing to know," I say too quickly, too defensively. "We're not—it's not—"
"Don't worry." Lolita waves a manicured hand dismissively. "I won't tell Adrian."
"There's nothing to tell," I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.
Lolita laughs—genuine, throaty amusement. "If you say so."
She leans forward slightly, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.
"But let me give you some advice, woman to woman. Men like Adrian don't handle perceived betrayal well. Whether the betrayal actually happened or not is irrelevant. Appearance matters as much as reality."
"I'm not betraying anyone."
"Aren't you?" Her eyebrow arches. "The way you look at Bellamy, the way he looks at you... That's a betrayal in Adrian's eyes, regardless of whether you've physically acted on it."
I want to deny everything she's saying, but even though I'm certain of my innocence, I can't argue with Lolita.
I take a long sip of my latte to avoid responding. Lolita changes subjects with practiced ease. "Eleanor looked well the other day. Older, of course, but still herself."
"You were friends once," I’m grateful for the shift away from Bellamy. "What happened?"
"Life happened." Lolita's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. "We were very close. Like sisters, actually. I adored her."
"And then you disappeared."
"I got bored." She says it so casually, like abandoning close friendships is just a normal occurrence. "Our dynamic had served its purpose. I moved on."
"That's cruel."
"That's honest." Lolita doesn't look bothered by my judgment. "Eleanor tracked me down years later, after Adrian had already left home. She wanted answers about what happened to her son."
"And you told her?"
"Eventually." Lolita stirs her coffee with deliberate slowness. "She was very persistent, emotional. Finally I explained about the training I'd given Adrian: the psychological techniques, the development of his particular skill set."
My stomach turns. "You told his mother what you did to him?"
"She deserved to know." Lolita's tone remains matter-of-fact, clinical. "She kept insisting she'd failed him somehow, so I explained that it wasn't her fault. She couldn't have seen it because I'm very good at what I do."
"And that was supposed to make her feel better?"
"Truth rarely makes people feel better." Lolita meets my eyes. "But it does give them clarity. Eleanor finally understood why Adrian became who he is. Why he's so controlled, so manipulative, so talented at reading people and exploiting their weaknesses."
I think about Eleanor upstairs in our apartment. The guilt she must carry knowing what happened to her son, understanding the damage, but arriving too late to prevent it.
"Did you apologize?" I ask.
Lolita actually laughs. "For what? I gave Adrian tools. Valuable tools he's used to build an impressive life. The fact that he's now struggling with domesticity isn't my fault."
"He was seventeen."
"He was old enough to make choices."
I stare at this woman who destroyed Adrian's adolescence and feels no remorse. Who shaped him into someone capable of great brilliance and profound emotional damage. Who sees human relationships as experiments and manipulation as art.
"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask quietly.
"Because you asked." Lolita finishes her coffee. "And because you should understand what you're dealing with. Adrian is my creation, Sophie. For better or worse. If you're going to stay with him, or leave him, you should do it with full understanding of what he is."
She stands, gathering her designer handbag with elegant efficiency. "Thank you for the chat. Give Amelia a kiss from her godmother."
"You're not her godmother."
"Not yet." Lolita's smile is enigmatic. "But I will be. One way or another."