Chapter 4 - Margaret’s Blessing
The inside of the farmhouse smelled exactly as Sophia had remembered: cinnamon, peppermint tea, old paper, and lemon polish. But the atmosphere was heavy, soaked through with the unmistakable, quiet dread of a dying home.
Emma hurried down the narrow hallway, her eyes red-rimmed, nearly crashing into Sophia before stopping short when she saw Dominic standing behind her.
"Soph—oh, you're here," Emma gasped, whispering frantically. "And... who is this?"
"This is Dominic," Sophia said quietly, shifting Lily in her arms. "Where's Mom?"
"In her room. She’s awake, but she’s weak." Emma stared at Dominic with wide, unblinking eyes, clearly overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the man standing in their tiny foyer. "Does Dad know...?"
"Dad already gave him the cold shoulder," Sophia sighed. "Lead the way, Em."
They walked down the hall to the master bedroom. The door was cracked open. Inside, propped up against a mountain of floral pillows, sat Margaret Carter.
The sight hit Sophia like a physical blow. Her mother’s face was hollowed out, her skin translucent, and her scalp covered by a soft knitted blue cap. But when her sunken eyes turned toward the doorway and caught sight of Sophia, a brilliant, heartbreaking smile broke across her face.
"My girl," Margaret breathed, her voice raspy and thin. "You made it."
Sophia rushed to the bedside, setting Lily down carefully on the edge of the mattress before burying her face in her mother’s frail shoulder, sobbing quietly so as not to frighten the child. "I'm here, Mom. I'm right here."
Margaret stroked Sophia’s hair with trembling fingers. "Shh, sweetheart. Don't waste your tears on an old woman who's had a good run." She looked up, her gaze shifting past Sophia’s shoulder to where Dominic stood silently in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back.
Margaret’s eyes widened slightly. She studied him—really studied him—taking in the expensive posture, the intense gaze, and the protective way he stood guarding the threshold.
"Well," Margaret whispered, a faint twinkle returning to her eyes. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your young man, Sophia?"
Sophia wiped her eyes, stepping back and clearing her throat. "Mom, this is Dominic Moretti. Dominic, this is my mother, Margaret."
Dominic stepped forward, moving with a surprising, gentle reverence. He didn't offer a stiff handshake; instead, he walked straight to the side of the bed, knelt down on one knee so he was eye-level with the dying woman, and gently took her cold, fragile hand in his large, warm palms.
"It is an absolute privilege to meet you, Mrs. Carter," Dominic said, his voice entirely stripped of its corporate chill, carrying a warmth that made Sophia’s chest ache. "Your daughter talks about you constantly. Especially your Tuesday bread."
Margaret let out a raspy, delighted laugh. "Is that right? Did she tell you how I burn every third loaf?"
"She told me you make the best bread in Pennsylvania," Dominic corrected with a soft, genuine smile. "And I have very high standards."
Margaret squeezed his hand, her gaze searching his face with fierce maternal intuition. "You take care of my girl, Dominic Moretti. She’s tougher than she looks, but she carries the whole world on her shoulders."
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"I intend to, Mrs. Carter," Dominic answered, his eyes locking onto Margaret’s with a solemn, unbreakable vow. "I intend to protect her from everything."
Sophia stood watching them, a strange, terrifying heat spreading through her chest. She had asked him to play a part, but looking at him now, kneeling beside her mother’s deathbed, she realized she had no idea what game Dominic Moretti was actually playing—or how deeply he intended to win.
