Please Come Back, My Love novel Chapter 361

Please Come Back, My Love

Chapter 361

Sophia’s POV

Claire’s intrusion that day didn’t trigger the explosion I had anticipated. Lucas calmed her down with a few cold, irrefutable words,

promising he would handle everything.

Then they left together, leaving me with nothing but endless silence and days of isolation that followed.

Three days? Four? Lucas would appear like a ghost, ask the doctors about my condition in that clipped tone, and vanish again.

I was alone. Completely, devastatingly alone.

I spent hours staring at ceiling tiles, counting perforations until my eyes blurred.

The IV was removed after the second day, but they kept me for observation–making sure the bleeding didn’t restart, that the baby

was stable. Every time a nurse checked the fetal heartbeat, I held my breath, waiting for bad news that never came.

The baby was fine. Somehow, impossibly, still holding on.

I wished I could say the same for myself.

On what might have been the fourth morning, I watched autumn leaves drift past the window.

They spiraled down from the courtyard trees, each caught in its own private dance before settling on the ground. Dead things,

beautiful in their dying.

I pressed my palm against the cold glass and wondered if that’s what I looked like now–something lovely on the surface, but

fundamentally finished.

My phone buzzed: [Book three tickets back to New York. Tomorrow. First class.]

No explanation. No “how are you feeling.” Just an order, delivered with the same cold efficiency he used for everything now.

I typed back: Three tickets?

His response came immediately: You, me, and Claire.

Of course. I didn’t respond, just opened the airline app and booked what he’d demanded. First class to JFK. Three seats that

probably cost more than most people made in a month.

The flight was torture. Lucas sat between Claire and me, a human barrier.

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Claire spent most of the journey with her head on his shoulder, shooting me looks that oscillated between friumph and conteript. kept my eyes on the window, trying not to think about how my stomach was twisting into knots..

When we landed at JFK, Lucas simply collected his carry–on, took Claire’s hand, and walked away. No goodbye. No acknowledgment.

Just gone.

I made it to the curb before a sleek black Mercedes pulled up. The rear window rolled down, and a man in a dark suit leaned out.

“Miss Cruz. Mr. Reynolds sent us to collect you.”

I stepped back. “I didn’t ask for a car.”

“Nevertheless.” He opened the door. “Please.”

“I’m taking a cab. I turned toward the taxi line.

The man got out–easily six–three, built like he lived in a gym. “Mr. Reynolds was very clear. You’re to come with us.”

“And if I refuse?”

Something cold flickered in his eyes. “I’d prefer not to make this difficult.”

My heart started pounding. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m following orders. Please get in the car.”

I looked around desperately, but no one was paying attention to the pregnant woman being strong–armed into a Mercedes.

“This is insane,” I said, but my voice came out weak.

“The car, Miss Cruz.”

I got in.

We drove for forty–five minutes through suburbs, then sprawling estates behind stone walls. Eventually, we turned down a private

road lined with oak trees, their branches forming a canopy that blocked the late afternoon sun.

The estate sat at the end like something from a period drama. Three stories of pale stone, surrounded by manicured gardens.

Security cameras mounted everywhere, men in dark suits patrolling the grounds.

A beautiful, expensive prison.

“Welcome home, Miss Cruz,” the driver said, opening my door.

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I wanted to laugh or scream. Instead, I climbed out and stared up at the house, trying to process what was happening.

The front door opened, and a woman in her fifties emerged. Gray slacks, cream blouse, silver hair in a neat bun. “Miss Cruz,” she

said warmly, as if I were an expected guest rather than a captive. “I’m Margaret. I manage the household.”

“What is this place?”

“Your new residence. Mr. Reynolds has prepared the master suite–south–facing, lots of natural light. There’s a library, gym, pod-

“I don’t want to be here.”

Her professional mask slipped slightly. “I understand this is an adjustment-”

“Where’s Lucas? I need to talk to him. Now.”

“Mr. Reynolds is in the city. He’ll be here this evening.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

I planted myself on the grand staircase, sitting on the lower steps like a child in timeout.

Margaret tried coaxing me upstairs with offers of tea and sandwiches, but I refused. I wasn’t moving until Lucas explained what the

hell he thought he was doing.

The house was beautiful–high ceilings with ornate molding, gleaming hardwood floors, crystal chandelier overhead. Through

archways, I could see museum–quality furniture and a dining table that could seat twenty.

Everything perfect. Everything controlled. Everything a cage.

I called Lucas. Voicemail. Again. Same result.

Text: [What the fuck is this?]

No response.

[You can’t just lock me up like a prisoner.]

Nothing.

(ANSWER ME.]

Still nothing.

I let my head fall back against the bannister, exhaustion catching up. The baby shifted–or maybe I imagined it–and I pressed my

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