Chapter 47

Isabella perched gracefully on the round stool, gazing at Ethan with adoration. He lounged casually on the sofa, one arm draped over the back, his long legs crossed. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, its faint glow casting shadows that accentuated his sharp, indifferent demeanor.

Between them, the coffee table was adorned with an array of delicate desserts—macarons, soufflés, chocolate truffles, and sand tarts. Each was bite-sized, exquisitely crafted, and worth a small fortune. The golden peach pudding, in particular, was Isabella’s favorite.

Sophia had never tasted such luxuries, but she recognized them all. Back when she lived at the Thornton estate, she’d often watched Isabella indulge in them. Isabella had always lived lavishly, spoiled by Benjamin and Elizabeth, who denied her nothing. Now, with Ethan—a man of staggering wealth—as her fiancé, he indulged her every whim, letting her pick and choose as she pleased.

Sophia swallowed hard. She was starving.

Perhaps the sound was too loud, or perhaps she’d been staring too long—but when Isabella turned her head, her eyes locked onto Sophia’s awkward figure at the entrance.

Their gazes met. Isabella’s lips curled into a smirk, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

Today had been terrifying for her and her parents. They’d spied on Ethan at the hospital for hours, only to discover he’d rushed Sophia to the emergency room for a fever. Panic had set in.

For hours, the Thorntons sat paralyzed in their car, unsure what to do. Then, they saw Ethan step out of the ward, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was icy. "Prepay the medical bills. She’ll cover the rest."

Those words had been a relief.

It was simple—Ethan had saved Sophia only because she was useful to his mother. Nothing more.

That afternoon, Isabella had waited pitifully outside Ethan’s residence. When he returned, she rushed to him, feigning concern. "Ethan, how is Sophia? I know your mother is leaving soon. If you didn’t dismiss her, you must have saved her for a reason."

"What’s in your hand?" he’d asked.

"I… I heard your voice was hoarse this morning. I worried you might catch a cold, so I made you chicken soup. It’s good for preventing illness. Here, take it while it’s still warm. I’ll go now." She handed him the thermos, playing the perfect, selfless fiancée.

But Ethan caught her wrist. "Have you eaten?"

He remembered she’d waited outside all night.

"I… I have," she lied, swallowing nervously.

Without another word, he pulled her into his car and drove her to buy these desserts.

Her heart melted.

Despite his cold exterior, he cared for her.

Now, with the sweets spread before her, Isabella seized the moment to flirt shamelessly, hinting she wanted to stay the night.

And then, as if fate had orchestrated it—Sophia walked in.

Isabella shot her a smug glance before turning back to Ethan, her voice dripping with honeyed sweetness. "Ethan… I’ve missed you so much."

Sophia couldn’t block out the words.

She wanted to turn and leave, but it was too late.

Gritting her teeth, she stepped forward, meeting Ethan’s piercing gaze.

"Oh, Sophia! You’re back!" Isabella chirped. "Ethan told me you were sick. I hope you’re feeling better. His mother still needs you, after all."

Sophia’s face was pale, her body weakened from illness.

She hadn’t eaten properly in days. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes sunken.