Sophia buried her face deeper into the pillow. "Damn traitor," she muttered, no longer able to hold back the sobs that had been building for hours. They poured out freely now, refusing to cease no matter how hard she tried.

That French scoundrel had treated her like a mere plaything, something to use whenever it suited him. The moment she no longer fit his sudden sense of righteousness, he invented cruel games to push her away.

Did he think he was some kind of god? Or a savior tasked with setting the world straight?

Who had given him the authority to decide what was right and wrong? She certainly had...