Page 114 of The Bargain

But I’m not a hero, I never was. And I’ve just spent seven days being treated like I’m something less than human, and I’ve had a lot of time with nothing to do but let my resentment fester.

And, if I’m being totally honest, I fucking hate the Pearsons.

I meet Sophie’s gaze, and the darkness in her eyes, which looks like strength, not malevolence, matches the darkness inside my chest, and maybe that darkness isn’t a bad thing to have after all. If I say what I want to say, then there’ll be no going back.

But I’ve never been one for regret, have I?

“War.”

Mrs Pearson flinches, lips pinched almost invisible. At her side, her husband swallows drily, throat bobbing. They both look taken aback. Against all odds, they’d both assumed I would choose forgiveness.

But Sophie’s lips curl into the ghost of a grin, and even though I know she’d have supported either choice I could’ve made, I also know, with total certainty, that I’ve just made the choice she would have made.

She gives a single nod and turns back to the Pearsons, who are watching us, aghast.

“Here’s what the situation looks like from the outside,” Sophie begins calmly. “You took a disadvantaged, gifted child and turned him into a trophy. You put him on your Christmas cards, your charity pamphlets, your speeches. Look at what good people we are. We don’t hate the poor. Vote for us.”

Mrs Pearson’s mouth opens in protest, but Sophie raises a hand.

“You might well flatter yourself into thinking of what you’ve done as philanthropy. I, on the other hand, see it for what it is: exploitation.” She smiles coldly. “Now, being a despicable person isn’t a criminal offence, is it? And it turns out your idea of charity is a little more than unethical—it’s criminal.”

The Pearsons glare at their lawyer, who finally has the courage to speak.

“My clients haven’t committed any⁠—”

“Misappropriation of charity funds,” Sophie interrupts him. “False accounting. Fraud by abuse of position. You see, my husband and I happened to have made a pretty sizable donation to your organisation, Mr and Mrs Pearson, last winter.”

Fuck—the gala. It feels like a lifetime ago, now, and I think maybe the memory of Dominic House Observatory will always overshadow the painful memory of the gala. I catch my breath, staring at Sophie.

“I was very intrigued to find out the good use my money was being put to. Imagine my surprise when I found out the truth. Well, you don’t need to imagine, do you? You already know.” She smiles. “I’ve already sent everything to the Serious Fraud Office, along with the witness statements and the financial records you so helpfully left unredacted in your own quarterly reports.”

The colour drains from Mrs Pearson’s face. Her husband’s smile fractures into something small and flailing, unrecognisable.

Sophie doesn’t stop. She might not be made of metal, but she is a machine, utterly unstoppable.

“You used Elias for your reputation, your tax benefits, your vanity—and when he became inconvenient, you let the wolves have him. Something no parent would ever allow—something I’m certain you would never in a lifetime do to your own biological children.”

Finally, Sophie turns back to me. Something in her expression softens—only enough that I feel the change like a shock to the heart. After seven days of being ordered this way and that, after being talked over and ignored by everyone in this room, Sophie speaks directly to me.

“I’ve reviewed the full report, Elias,” she says. “What they did to you was illegal, unethical, and unforgivable. Your innocence was never once considered, let alone presumed. You were detained without charge, isolated without contact, humiliated in the press, and treated like a criminal by the very people who should have protected you. That stops here. Someone should have fought for you a long time ago. Consider that mistake corrected.”

My throat feels so tight I can’t even swallow. For the first time in my life, I can’t think of anything clever or funny or even cynical to say. I just stare at her, and in her calm, lethal composure, I see the formidable woman Desdemona is going to become.

Sophie gathers her files, tucks them neatly into her dorky satchel, and straightens her blazer. Then she looks at the superintendent and says, almost dismissively, “We’re done here.”

He blinks. “I—sorry, Mrs Sutton-Knight, but Mr Lennox is still⁠—”

“No,” Sophie interrupts, her tone absolute. “We’re done. Elias has been unlawfully detained, and he’s leaving with me. Now.”

Despite the fact it ends up taking almost three hours to get through all the paperwork and admin of my release, I’m still in shock by the time we emerge into the crisp daylight, blinking blearily into a faceful of sunshine. I don’t know why, but I imagined it had been raining—this entire time.

We get to the car, a big mud-splattered four-by-four, and I’m surprised when Sophie climbs into the driver’s seat. I expected her to use a chauffeur, but when I get in, it’s immediately obvious this is actually Sophie’s car. There’s an air-freshener in the shape of a moon crescent dangling from the rearview mirror. Paper cups of coffee are stacked haphazardly in the cup holders, and in the back of the car lie books, folders in filing boxes, a half-empty box of boozy chocolate truffles and a big fluffy scarf in deep brown wool.

Sophie starts the car and glances at me, smiling.

“Ready?” she says.

“Where are we going?” I ask her, still shocked, still expecting to wake up any moment.