Chapter6
1833 Words
Sofia’s POV
Power has a sound.
I realised that the first night I slept beside Noah Smith.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It didn’t roar like thunder or crash like waves. Power was quieter than that. It was the hum of security systems locking into place. The soft tread of guards patrolling hallways. The knowledge that for the first time in my life, no one could simply walk into my space and hurt me.
Yet sleep didn’t come easily.
I lay on my side, staring at the faint glow of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The bedroom was vast, elegant, meticulously curated, but I felt like an intruder in it. Noah lay on the other side of the bed, his presence unmistakable even in stillness. He hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t even faced me. A deliberate courtesy that somehow made everything more intimate.
This marriage was a contract. An alliance. Nothing more.
I repeated that to myself like a mantra.
Still, my senses betrayed me. The quiet rhythm of his breathing. The warmth radiating across the mattress. The subtle scent of cedar and something darker—control, maybe—clung to him like a second skin.
“You’re not sleeping,” he said softly, breaking the silence.
I swallowed. “Neither are you.”
A pause. Then he shifted slightly, turning onto his back. “First nights are always difficult.”
That made me glance at him. “How many first nights have you had?”
His lips curved faintly. “Enough to know this one is different.”
The words settled between us, heavy with implications I wasn’t ready to touch. I rolled onto my back, eyes tracing the ceiling. “Daniel called again,” I said quietly. “Five times.”
“I know.”
I frowned. “How?”
“I have access to your phone records now,” he said calmly. “I didn’t read your messages.”
“Good,” I replied quickly, then hesitated. “Thank you.”
He turned his head toward me. In the low light, his eyes looked almost silver. “Sofia, if this arrangement is going to work, we need clarity.”
My chest tightened. “About what?”
“Boundaries. Expectations. Trust.”
Trust. The word tasted dangerous.
I sat up slightly, pulling the sheet higher. “You want to lay out rules.”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” I said, bracing myself. “You go first.”
He considered me for a moment, then spoke with the same precision he brought to boardrooms and hostile takeovers. “Rule one: I will never touch you without your consent. Not for appearances. Not for convenience.”
Relief loosened something tight in my ribs.
“Rule two,” he continued, “in public, we act like a united front. Affection if necessary. Loyalty always.”
I nodded. That much I could do.
“Rule three,” he said, voice lowering, “we don’t lie to each other.”
My fingers curled into the sheet. “Even if the truth is ugly?”
“Especially then.”
Silence stretched.
“And your rules?” he asked.
I drew a breath. “Don’t treat me like an asset.”
His brow lifted slightly.
“I’ve been owned before,” I said, the words raw. “By expectations. By gratitude. By people who thought saving me meant controlling me. I won’t live like that again.”
Something flickered in his eyes—approval, maybe. “Agreed.”
“And,” I added, my voice steadying, “when this ends… I leave with my dignity intact.”
His gaze held mine. “You will leave stronger than you came in.”
I lay back down, tension easing by degrees. The rules were set. The lines drawn.
Still, when sleep finally came, it was restless and crowded with shadows.
---
Morning ushered in war.
It began with headlines.
NOAH SMITH MARRIES IN SECRET MYSTERY BRIDE REVEALED POWER COUPLE OR STRATEGIC MOVE?
My face was everywhere. An old photo from a charity gala. A grainy image from the day before, Noah’s hand firm at my back. The comments were merciless.
Who is she? Gold digger. She doesn’t belong in his world.
I stared at the screen, numb.
Noah stood behind me, his presence solid. “Turn it off,” he said gently.
“I knew it would be bad,” I murmured. “I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.”
He took the phone from my hand and set it aside. “They don’t know you. They’re afraid of what they don’t understand.”
“Or they enjoy tearing women apart,” I said bitterly.
“That too.”
He poured coffee, handed me a cup. “Today, you meet my board.”
I nearly choked. “Today?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t say anything about that.”
“I wanted you rested.”
I gave a humorless laugh. “I’m not a PR stunt, Noah.”
His jaw tightened. “I know. But they will test you. And I need them to see that you’re not a weakness.”
The word struck deep. “Because that’s all I’ve ever been,” I said softly. “A weakness.”
He met my gaze, unflinching. “No. You’re leverage.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
---
The boardroom was all glass and steel, perched high above the city like a throne room for gods who measured worth in percentages and profit margins. The moment we walked in, conversation died.
Eyes assessed me with surgical precision.
Noah took his seat at the head of the table. I sat beside him, spine straight, expression composed. I’d learned long ago how to survive scrutiny—by refusing to flinch.
“This is my wife, Sofia Smith,” Noah said evenly. “She’ll be joining some of our philanthropic initiatives.”
A man with silver hair leaned forward. “With all due respect, Noah, this marriage raises questions.”
“Then ask them,” Noah replied coolly.
The man’s gaze slid to me. “Miss Sinclair—”
“Smith,” I corrected softly.
A ripple of reaction passed around the table.
“Smith,” he amended. “What qualifies you to sit here?”
I smiled, not sweetly, but steadily. “Resilience.”
A woman scoffed. “That’s not a qualification.”
“No,” I agreed. “But it’s how you survive environments like this.”
Noah’s lips twitched.
“I’ve worked in nonprofit development,” I continued. “Crisis management. Community outreach. I know how optics work. I know how scandals spread. And I know how to redirect narratives.”
Silence followed.
The silver-haired man leaned back. “You’re aware that association with you invites… baggage.”
I met his gaze. “Only if you believe women are responsible for the cruelty inflicted on them.”
The room went very still.
Noah stood. “This meeting is over.”
As we left, his hand brushed mine—not holding, not claiming, just acknowledging.
“You were brilliant,” he murmured.
I exhaled shakily. “I thought they were going to eat me alive.”
“They tried,” he said. “You bit back.”
---
The retaliation came faster than expected.
That afternoon, an anonymous article surfaced online.
INSIDE SOFIA SMITH’S PAST FROM ADOPTED NOBODY TO BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE
They dragged everything into the light. My adoption. My parents’ rejection. My miscarriage.
I stared at the screen, heart hammering, nausea rising.
Noah stormed into the room, fury radiating off him in waves. “I’m shutting it down.”
“Don’t,” I said hoarsely.
He froze. “What?”
“If you erase it,” I whispered, “they win. They’ll say you’re hiding something.”
He searched my face. “Sofia—”
“I won’t be ashamed anymore,” I said, lifting my chin. “Let them see. Let them choke on it.”
Something fierce and protective softened in his expression. “You shouldn’t have to be this strong.”
“I’ve always been this strong,” I replied. “I just didn’t know it.”
---
That evening, the final blow struck where it hurt most.
Daniella went live.
I watched the video in stunned silence as she dabbed at dry eyes, voice trembling with practiced sorrow.
“She stole him,” Daniella said tearfully. “She’s always envied my life. My family. My love. This marriage is just another way to hurt me.”
My phone exploded with messages.
Is it true? How could you? You’ve gone too far.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Noah took the phone from my hand and placed it face down. “She wants you to react.”
“I want to scream,” I admitted.
“Then we respond strategically.”
He turned on his laptop. “You tell your story.”
My pulse raced. “Publicly?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve spent my life being quiet,” I said. “Invisible.”
“Then be seen,” he said simply.
An hour later, the video was posted.
It was just me. No makeup. No script.
“I was adopted,” I said calmly. “I was raised knowing I was tolerated, not cherished. I loved a man who betrayed me. I lost a child because of violence inflicted on me.”
I swallowed.
“I didn’t steal anyone. I survived. And I married someone who sees me, not as a convenience, but as a choice.”
I looked straight into the camera.
“I will not apologize for choosing myself.”
When the video ended, my hands were shaking.
Noah watched me like I’d just done something extraordinary. “You changed the game,” he said quietly.
---
That night, exhaustion crashed into me like a wave. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
Noah hesitated at the doorway. “May I?”
I nodded.
He sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. The contact sent a shock through me.
“You don’t have to be alone tonight,” he said softly. “Not if you don’t want to be.”
I turned to him, emotions tangling painfully in my chest. “This was supposed to be revenge.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now it feels like something else,” I admitted.
He didn’t move. Didn’t close the distance. He just held my gaze, steady and patient.
“Whatever this becomes,” he said, “we choose it. Together.”
For the first time since everything broke, I leaned into someone without fear.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the anger and grief and resolve, a dangerous thought took root:
This marriage might have started as a weapon.
But it was becoming a shelter.
And shelters, I’d learned, could turn into battlegrounds just as easily as they could become homes.
- Writer
