Chapter 3: SOFIA'S SKETCH
1405 Words
Sofia Morales stepped off the elevator into the quiet hum of her mother’s Tribeca, Manhattan office building, her canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder. The late afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long golden rectangles across the marble floors. She adjusted the strap of her bag, feeling the weight of her sketchbook and charcoal pencils inside. She hadn’t planned on coming here today, but after another cryptic voicemail from her father—“Sofi, cariño, we need to talk. It’s important.”—she needed an escape. The art studio at her community college was closed for repairs, and the thought of sitting alone in her cramped Brooklyn apartment made her chest tighten.
Her mother’s office was safe. Familiar. Even if Izzy would inevitably ask too many questions.
Sofia pushed open the frosted glass door labeled Morales Matches. The reception area was empty, Lila’s desk neatly organized with a vase of white orchids and a half-finished crossword. Izzy’s assistant was probably on one of her infamous coffee runs. Sofia smiled faintly. Lila always forgot her keys, leaving them dangling in the lock. Some things never changed.
She headed toward Izzy’s private office, her sneakers silent on the plush carpet. The door was slightly ajar, and she heard voices—her mother’s, sharp and clipped, and a man’s, low and accented. Something about the timbre of his voice made her pause. It wasn’t Carlos. This voice was colder, smoother, like dark chocolate left to harden.
Curiosity prickling, Sofia edged closer, peering through the gap.
Her mother sat behind her desk, arms crossed, her posture rigid. The man facing her was unlike anyone Sofia had ever seen. Tall, with shoulders that seemed to carve space out of the air itself. His hair was black, swept back from a face that belonged on a Renaissance painting—all sharp angles and shadowed hollows. But it was his eyes that held her. Even from this distance, they burned with a quiet intensity, like coals smoldering beneath ash.
"Who is he?", Sofia asked herself.
The man leaned forward, his voice dropping. “You think I’m scared? Of what, exactly?”
Izzy’s laugh was brittle. “Of needing someone. Of admitting you’re just as human as the rest of us.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “Humanity is overrated.”
Sofia’s fingers itched. She fumbled in her bag for her sketchbook, her hands moving on autopilot. She retreated to a leather armchair in the reception area, flipping to a blank page. The charcoal stick felt natural in her grip, the way it always did when something—or someone—stirred her.
She started with the slope of his shoulders, the way they seemed to carry an invisible weight. Then the line of his jaw, severe yet elegant. His hands—broad, with long fingers that tapped restlessly against his thigh. She lost track of time, the world narrowing to the dance of charcoal on paper, her paper.
The office door swung open. Sofia jerked her head up, clutching the sketchbook to her chest. The man strode out, his gaze sweeping past her without acknowledgment. He moved like a storm contained in a suit, all controlled power. The scent of sandalwood and something metallic—like rain on iron—lingered as he strode.
Izzy appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “Sofi? What are you doing here?”
“I—I needed a quiet place to work.” Sofia hesitated, “Who was that?”
Izzy’s eyes flickered toward the elevator, “A client. No one important.”
"Liar", Sofia thought. Her mother’s gestures were subtle—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the faint crease between her brows—but Sofia had spent nineteen years studying them.
“Since when do you let clients talk to you like that?” Sofia pressed on.
Izzy sighed, running a hand through her curls. “Since they pay six figures for the privilege. Come on, help me tidy up. Lila’s drowning in paperwork.”
Later, in Brooklyn, Sofia sat cross-legged on her bed, the sketchbook open in her lap. The man’s face stared back at her, half-finished, his eyes still lacking their fire. She chewed her lip, reaching for a finer pencil to shade the hollow beneath his cheekbone.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Gabi: “Did you ask her?”
Sofia groaned. Gabi had been nagging her for days to confront Izzy about Carlos’s sudden reappearance. “Not yet,” she typed back. “Chickened out.”
Three dots bounced. “You’re too nice, Sofi. He’s a parasite. Cut him off.”
Sofia set the phone aside. Gabi didn’t understand. Carlos wasn’t just some deadbeat—he was her father. The man who’d taught her to ride a bike, who’d spun wild stories about his days as a mariachi guitarist in Mexico City. The man who’d left her waiting on the porch in a party dress, clutching a deflated balloon.
Her pencil dug into the paper, darkening the man’s brow. She wondered what his story was. What kind of man could make her unflappable mother look... unsettled.
A knock at her door. “Sofi? Dinner’s ready.”
Sofia slammed the sketchbook shut. “Be right there.”
The next morning, Pedro Valdez stood in the lobby of Morales Matches, a bouquet of calla lilies in hand. The flowers were excessive—a concession to his own weakness. He hadn’t slept. The memory of Izzy’s defiance, the way her daughter had stared at him with those wide, observant eyes, had clung to him like smoke.
Lila gaped as he approached. “Mr. Valdez! I didn’t see you on the schedule”
“I’m not.” He set the flowers on her desk. “For Ms. Morales. No card.”
Lila blinked. “Should I... tell her you’re here?”
“No.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Is her daughter often here? The artist.”
Lila’s smile tightened. “Sofia? Sometimes. She’s in college. Very talented.”
Pedro nodded once. “Good day.”
As the elevator doors closed, he replayed the girl’s expression—curious, wary, seeing. Too much like her mother.
“What the hell is this?” Izzy glared at the lilies now wilting in Lila’s arms as she sat behind her big mahogany desk.
“From Mr. Valdez. No card, just... ominous billionaire vibes.”
Izzy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Throw them out.”
“But they’re gorgeous!”
“They’re a power play. Toss them.”
Lila shrugged, heading for the trash. Izzy sank into her chair, the man’s words from yesterday echoing, “You’re pretending this is professional.”
Her intercom buzzed. “Ms. Morales? Your 10 a.m. is here. A Mr. Castillo?”
Izzy straightened. Focus. This is just another client.
But as the man walked in—pleasant-faced, with a shy smile—all she could think was how ordinary he seemed. How utterly not Pedro. So so not Pedro.
---
Sofia returned to the office that evening, claiming she’d left her headphones. Really, she wanted another look at the man’s chair, the way the light had hit his profile.
The office was empty. She settled into the armchair, reopening her sketchbook. This time, she drew him from memory—the way he’d leaned forward, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, a silver watch glinting at his wrist. She added details she hadn’t noticed before: a faint scar along his jawline, the stubborn set of his mouth.
Footsteps. Sofia froze as Izzy emerged from her office, clutching a file.
“Sofi? I thought you left.”
“Just finishing something.” Sofia closed the sketchbook too quickly.
Izzy’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“Nothing. A project.”
“Let me see.”
“Mamá, no—”
Izzy snatched the sketchbook. Her breath hitched. “Dios mío. Why are you drawing him?”
Sofia’s face burned. “I don’t know. He just... stood out.”
Izzy stared at the portrait, her knuckles whitening. “Stay away from him, Sofia. He’s not... he’s not a good man.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Izzy’s voice cracked. “Trust me.”
She thrust the sketchbook back and walked away, leaving Sofia alone with the ghost of a man she couldn’t name.
- Writer
