Page 73 of Safe Place

Her lips part slightly, and her cheeks get even redder, and I swear my self-control is hanging by a thread.

Because if I keep staring at her like this—sitting here in my sweater, looking like she’s mine—I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my hands to myself.

SOPHIE

It takes me three tries to write the email.

The first draft is too formal, like I'm filing a tax return. The second falls apart halfway through—my hands start shaking and I have to close the laptop and just breathe for a minute. The third is somewhere in the middle, and I send it before I can read it back.

I don't feel relieved when it's done. I feel scraped-out and hollow, like I just handed something private to a stranger and I can't take it back. I sit there for a moment, staring at the sent confirmation on the screen.

Then I close the laptop and text Micah.

Me

Done. I filed it.

The phone rings almost immediately.

“How do you feel?” he asks, no preamble.

“I don't know yet.” I pull my knees to my chest, Micah's sweater still wrapped around me. “Scared, I think. What if they don't believe me?”

“They will,” he says. “You have everything documented. And if they don't move fast enough, I'll make sure they do.”

“Micah—“

“I know. You can handle it.” A beat. “I'm just saying you don't have to do it alone.”

I look at the closed laptop for a long moment. The truth is, three months ago I would've deleted those screenshots. I would've convinced myself it wasn't worth the trouble, swallowed it whole, and let it become another thing I carried quietly.

I don't know when that changed. I think maybe it's been changing for a while, in ways I didn't notice until just now.

Maybe I’m not as afraid of everything blowing up in my face anymore—because I know there’s someone I can fall back on.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”

“Get some sleep,” he says. His voice is softer now. “I'll check on you in the morning.”

I hang up and set the phone on the nightstand and I let myself lie back and just be still.

TWENTY

I’ve realized I’m always looking at her

MICAH

I have some business to attend to in Boston. It could have easily been done through Zoom or a phone call, but my dad has been very adamant about keeping me busy. He frames it as preparation—long drives, client stamina, whatever story makes it sound intentional—but I know what it actually is. He's seen me slipping off his schedule, and this is his way of pulling the leash. The fact that I have classes, that I'm actually a student, doesn't register as a competing priority. What matters to him is that I stop being distracted. And by distracted, he means Sophie.

He told me to stop by his office before I head back home. He needs to speak with me, and I’m hoping it’s not what I think it’s about.

“Good morning, Mr. Vale,” my dad’s secretary greets me as I approach her.

“Hey Lauren. Is my dad in?” I ask.

“He is. He’s waiting for you. You can go in,” she says, gesturing to the door to his office.

My father stands by the window of his office, hands clasped behind his back like he’s addressing an employee, not his son.