Behind his blue eyes Ch 10

Bonus Chapter: Behind Blue Eyes

Lucas’s Perspective

The first time I saw Sophie Winters, it was in a photograph tucked inside a business proposal. Her brother Jake sat across from me at Bennett International,

outlining the potential strategic partnership between our families. I was only half- listening, my attention caught by the blonde woman in the background of a family photo he’d included in the presentation materials.

“Who’s that?” I asked, interrupting his financial projections.

Jake followed my gaze. “My sister, Sophie. She’s a jewelry designer in New York.” Something about her eyes–intelligent, creative, with a hint of sadness–stayed

with me long after the meeting ended.

When my grandfather suggested a marriage alliance to solidify the business deal, I agreed more readily than anyone expected. The older generation still believed in arranged marriages as a way to cement business relationships, and while I found it archaic, I was pragmatic enough to recognize its strategic value. Plus, I’d grown

tired of the endless dating scene where my bank account was the primary

attraction.

But it was that photograph that made me say yes.

“I want to see more of her,” I told my grandfather when he brought up the

arrangement.

He raised an eyebrow. “The girl or her portfolio?”

“Both.”

The financial investigation into the Winters family was standard–their business holdings, debt structure, potential liabilities. But I ordered a separate, more thorough background check on Sophie herself. Not just the basics–education, employment, credit–but a comprehensive profile.

I told myself it was due diligence. In reality, I was already invested in a way I didn’t quite understand.

The dossier arrived two days later. Sophie Winters, 29, graduated from Parsons

School of Design with honors. Working as a senior designer at a boutique jewelry firm in Manhattan. Lived in an Upper East Side apartment registered to one Ethan

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Walton.

That name gave me pause.

“Run a deeper check on Walton,” I instructed my head of security. “And get me

everything on his relationship with Sophie Winters.”

I didn’t expect what came back. Seven years of a relationship hidden from most of their social circle. No joint property. No public acknowledgment. And most

concerning a pattern of emotional manipulation that was evident even in dry investigative reports.

“He’s Winters‘ childhood friend,” my security chief explained. “They’ve known each other since boarding school. From what we can tell, Walton has been stringing the sister along while maintaining connections with an ex–girlfriend. Recent

surveillance photos indicate the ex has returned from London.”

I studied the photos of Sophie entering Walton’s building with her own key, the way she checked over her shoulder before doing so. The careful distance they kept

in public settings.

“She’s his dirty secret,” I realized aloud, something cold settling in my chest.

My security chief shifted uncomfortably. “It appears so, sir.”

I closed the file. “Continue monitoring. I want to know the moment anything

changes.”

To my grandfather, I simply confirmed I was proceeding with the arrangement. What I didn’t tell him was that something in Sophie’s situation called to me. I recognized the pattern because I’d seen it before–watched my mother endure my father’s serial philandering, always with the promise that the other women meant nothing, that she was the only one who mattered. The lies that became so routine they formed the foundation of our family’s existence.

I’d sworn I would never be that kind of man. And I’d developed a particular contempt for men who were.

Three weeks later, the report arrived: Sophie Winters had purchased a one–way ticket to Geneva following what appeared to be a significant confrontation with

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Walton. My team had observed her systematically emptying the apartment of her possessions over a two–week period while Walton was conspicuously absent, spending his nights at another woman’s residence.

“She’s coming home,” Jake told me over the phone, sounding relieved. “And she’s agreed to the arrangement.”

“Did something happen?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral despite already

knowing the answer.

“I’m not sure. She didn’t say much. But she’s… different. Harder somehow.” Good, I thought. Hardness was protective. Hardness would serve her well.

I arranged for a car to collect my belongings from my Zurich office, intending to be in Geneva when she arrived. A business dinner was scheduled with Jake the night

before her arrival–a dinner I never made it to.

My aunt Karen had been vocal about her opposition to my assuming full control of Bennett International. The merger with Winters would cement my position as grandfather’s successor, effectively cutting off her husband’s path to greater influence in the company. I’d been careful, knowing her capacity for subterfuge, but I’d underestimated her willingness to use her own son.

My cousin Thomas had suggested drinks before the dinner. One moment I was sipping a whiskey at the hotel bar, the next I was struggling to maintain

consciousness in a bathroom stall, my vision blurring as I tried to splash water on

my face.

I recognized the symptoms–my drink had been drugged. Not enough to be dangerous, just enough to create a scene, to make me appear unstable and

reckless before the important meeting with Jake. It was the kind of petty sabotage

Karen specialized in.

I managed to text my security team before the worst of it hit me. Then I heard a soft gasp as the bathroom door opened.

Even through my compromised vision, I knew immediately who she was. The photograph hadn’t done her justice.

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Sophie Winters stood frozen in the doorway, her blue eyes wide with surprise. Instinct took over. If this was to be our first meeting, I couldn’t appear weak or incapacitated. I straightened, summoning every ounce of control I possessed, and decided to turn the situation to my advantage.

When I pressed her against the wall, it was partially to steady myself. But the

moment I felt her body against mine, something shifted. This wasn’t just strategy

anymore.

“You’re even hotter in person than your photos,” I said, and meant it. Even in my

impaired state, I recognized the chemistry between us was explosive.

Her response–cautious yet curious–told me everything I needed to know about her. Smart. Guarded. But not running away.

When she reached into my pocket for my wallet, her fingers brushing against me, I nearly lost the tenuous control I was maintaining. The drug was making it hard to

filter my responses, hard to maintain the careful restraint I prided myself on.

Which is how we ended up on that hotel bed, my mouth on hers, my hands

exploring the body I’d only seen in photographs. The rational part of my brain

knew this wasn’t how our first meeting should go. The rest of me didn’t care. She tasted like freedom and possibility. Like a future I hadn’t dared imagine for

myself—one with a partner rather than a business arrangement.

When her brother interrupted us, I was equal parts furious and relieved. Furious at

the intrusion, relieved at the prevention of what would have been the most

spectacularly inappropriate beginning to an arranged marriage in history. Jake’s protectiveness was expected. What surprised me was Sophie’s defense of me. Even after our bizarre first encounter, she was willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. It suggested an openness, a generosity of spirit that her ex clearly hadn’t deserved.

By the time I was sober enough to think clearly, I’d already decided two things: First, I was going to marry Sophie Winters, not because of any business

arrangement, but because I wanted her.

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Second, Ethan Walton was going to regret every moment he’d made her feel less

than precious.

The next morning, despite a throbbing headache and the lingering effects of whatever Thomas had slipped me, I arrived at the Winters‘ estate determined to begin properly with Sophie. The casual clothes, the careful conversation with her father–all calculated to present myself as approachable, trustworthy. When she appeared on the stairs, face bare of makeup, hesitant but unafraid,

something tightened in my chest. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to

do with conventional standards–a luminous quality that seemed to come from

within.

The kiss in the sunroom wasn’t planned. I’d intended to apologize formally for my

behavior the night before, to establish boundaries and proceed with appropriate

caution.

But then she’d said “exploration” in that soft, curious voice, and every noble

intention evaporated. I wanted to explore her, all of her–not just physically, but

the mind behind those watchful eyes, the talent in those creative hands.

Each day with Sophie revealed new facets to admire. Her resilience. Her quiet determination. The way she approached her designs with a singular focus that matched my own work ethic. The joy that gradually returned to her eyes as she began to trust that I saw her–really saw her.

When she showed me her portfolio, I immediately recognized exceptional talent.

The Cartier introduction wasn’t charity or favoritism–it was connecting brilliance to opportunity. The registration of her designs in her name was simply acknowledging what was already true: her creations belonged to her alone. The look on her face when she realized I respected her work–truly respected it,

not as a cute hobby but as valuable art—was worth more than any physical intimacy could have been.

That’s when I knew I was falling for her.

Then came the call from my security team: Ethan Walton had booked a flight to Geneva. My first instinct was to have him intercepted, prevented from entering the

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country entirely. But a more strategic approach presented itself.

Let him come. Let him make his desperate plea. And let Sophie see, once and for all, the pathetic reality of the man she’d wasted seven years loving.

I arranged for the confrontation to happen at the house, where Sophie would be surrounded by people who genuinely cared for her. I stayed nearby, watching Walton’s performance–the flowers, the ring, the practiced sincerity in his voice. When Sophie rejected him, the fierce pride I felt was matched only by my admiration for her strength. When he grabbed her, something darker rose in me- a protective rage I hadn’t experienced before.

It took considerable restraint not to break more than his leg that day.

The shopping trip afterward wasn’t just retail therapy–it was reclamation. Each item Sophie chose was selected by her, for her, not to please anyone else. Her genuine delight as she explored her own taste was worth every penny charged to my black card.

The Cartier collaboration, the dress, the wedding preparations–I orchestrated each element to reflect her preferences, not mine. This marriage might have begun as an arrangement, but Sophie deserved a wedding that honored her vision, not just satisfied a business contract.

Inviting Walton to the wedding was cruel, I admit that freely. But I’ve never claimed to be a nice man, only an honest one. Seeing him there, broken in body but still desperately clinging to the idea of possessing Sophie, confirmed what I’d suspected all along: he never loved her, only the idea of her as an accessory, a backup plan.

The honeymoon was everything I’d hoped–Sophie blossoming in the freedom of being truly cherished, her laughter becoming more frequent, her passion more uninhibited. Watching her swim in our private lagoon, design sketches spread across our villa’s desk, sleep peacefully beside me–I found myself grateful for the arrangement that had brought us together, even as it evolved into something neither of us had anticipated.

After our return to Geneva, we settled into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural.

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Sophie began working with Cartier while I managed Bennett International’s expansion into new markets. We found balance, each respecting the other’s work while building a life together that transcended our initial arrangement. When I received word that Walton had been observed driving past our Geneva

residence, my response was immediate and absolute. He would not be allowed to disrupt the life we were building. The direct approach would have been simpler–a confrontation, perhaps another broken bone or two. But I’ve always preferred

subtler methods when available.

A word to the right people. A suggestion planted in Ava’s unstable mind. A

carefully calibrated absence of obstacles to her spiral into destructive behavior. I didn’t cause the accident. I simply… facilitated the conditions for inevitable

conflict.

Ensuring Walton received the best medical care afterward wasn’t mercy—it was fulfillment of a promise. He would live to witness Sophie’s happiness with me. For years. Decades, if medical science had anything to say about it.

When Sophie asked if I’d had anything to do with Walton’s downfall, I told her as much of the truth as I thought she could bear. Not to protect myself, but to protect her from having to reconcile the man she loved with the man capable of such cold

calculation.

The night she said she loved even the darkest parts of me—the parts most people would find terrifying–was the night I finally believed in the possibility of being truly known and still accepted. Not just tolerated or managed, but embraced

completely.

Sophie believes our story began with her brother’s business proposal or perhaps that night in the hotel bathroom. She’s not entirely wrong.

But for me, it began with a photograph. A glimpse of sad eyes that I somehow knew I could make happy. A chance to break a cycle of lies and create something honest, even if that honesty included aspects of myself that weren’t conventionally

admirable.

I watch her sleep beside me now, her body curved trustingly against mine, and think about the man I was before her–controlled, calculating, emotionally

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still those things in many ways. But now there’s someone who sees all of it and

chooses to stay anyway.

Someone I would burn the world down to protect.

Five years into our marriage, I still find myself watching her sleep. Sophie’s changed in subtle ways–her confidence more pronounced, her creativity flowing more freely now that it’s properly nurtured. Motherhood has transformed her too, revealing a fierce protectiveness that rivals even my own.

Emma wasn’t planned, at least not so soon. We’d been married barely a year when

Sophie told me she was pregnant, her expression a mixture of joy and uncertainty.

“Is this okay?” she’d asked, as if I might be anything but ecstatic.

The moment I held our daughter–this tiny, perfect being with Sophie’s delicate

features and my eyes–something fundamental shifted within me. I’d always

understood the concept of legacy in business terms: assets to protect, wealth to preserve, power to maintain. Emma gave it an entirely new meaning. Now, watching Sophie guide Emma through the world with such gentle strength,

I’m continually amazed by her capacity for love. She’s built her jewelry empire

while nursing our daughter, sketching designs during naptime, negotiating

contracts with Emma balanced on her hip. Each night, no matter how exhausting

her day, she reads Emma stories, teaching her that women can be both nurturing and powerful.

“She has your focus,” Sophie told me once, watching Emma painstakingly arrange

her stuffed animals. “That Bennett intensity.”

“And your creativity,” I replied, noting the elaborate narrative our three–year–old

had constructed for her toys.

“Poor child,” Sophie had laughed. “Intensity and creativity–she’ll never have a

moment’s peace in her head.”

Neither do I, but the restlessness that once drove me has found its purpose:

protecting this family we’ve built, ensuring Sophie’s talent receives the recognition it deserves, creating a world where Emma will thrive.

Our partnership has evolved in ways neither of us anticipated that night in the

hotel

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bathroom. I’d expected compatibility, respect, perhaps even affection. I hadn’t dared hope for this profound connection–the way Sophie sees through my calculated exterior to the truth beneath, the way she accepts my methods without sharing my ruthlessness.

Her business success doesn’t surprise me; I recognized her exceptional talent. immediately. What continues to amaze me is her compassion–how she insists we establish scholarships for young designers, how she mentors women trying to break into an industry dominated by men, how she teaches Emma to be kind even while being strong.

When Sophie told me about the second pregnancy yesterday, her eyes shining with quiet joy, I felt that same overwhelming protectiveness I’d experienced with Emma, magnified by five years of loving this extraordinary woman.

The life we’ve built together–our home in Geneva, the apartment in Paris, Sophie’s growing business, our perfect daughter, and now another child on the way–seems almost unreal sometimes. Like a dream I don’t deserve but will fight to keep with every resource and skill at my disposal.

Five years ago, I arranged a marriage of convenience that became the most authentic relationship of my life. Five years of watching Sophie heal, grow, and flourish. Five years of learning that power isn’t just about control but about enabling someone else’s strength.

And through it all, Ethan Walton watches from his wheelchair, exactly as I promised him he would. Each award Sophie wins, each collection that launches to critical acclaim, each happy family photograph that appears in the financial and society pages–I make sure they all find their way to him. Not out of cruelty, but as fulfillment of my vow: he will witness what he lost, what he threw away, for the rest