The Astor study thrummed with tension as the argument flared anew, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and lingering rose perfume from Mrs. Astor's exit.
Sofia stood firm, arms crossed, her glare locked on Louis and his mother. "The Astor family owes me an apology," she insisted, her voice slicing through the room like a blade. "Your dog trespassed, your son humiliated me, and I demand respect—for once."
Louis's mother, seated regally on a velvet chair, let out a derisive scoff, her silk gown rustling with the movement. "Respect? You stormed our home like a common thief, disrupting our peace. The Astors apologize to no one least of all a Roosevelt with such brazen audacity."
Louis leaned against the mahogany desk, his familiar smirk creeping back, arms folded casually. "Yeah, Sofia, you barged into my room while i was half-naked literally , that's your blunder. Why should we grovel for it? You're the intruder here."
Sofia's eyes narrowed, her cheeks flushing with righteous anger, the faint tick of a wall clock underscoring her fury. "Blunder? Your dog started this chaos, sniffing around Luna like it owned the place! I returned it with courtesy you don't deserve. You're the ones lacking manners—throwing water, mocking us, and now this?"
The older woman's lips pressed into a thin line, her tone dropping to a frigid edge that chilled the room. "Manners are a Roosevelt failing. We raised Louis with dignity, not your theatrical nonsense or uninvited invasions."
Sofia stepped forward, undeterred, the hardwood floor creaking under her heels like a warning. "Dignity? Throwing water, mocking us, and letting your pet invade—that's dignity? Apologize, or this war gets uglier. I won't leave without it."
Louis chuckled, shaking his head as if amused by her defiance, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Ugly? You're out of ammo, Roosevelt. Mom, don't stress—she's all hot air, puffing up for show."
His mother sighed, rising with a graceful sweep that rustled the curtains. "Fine, Louis, handle it. I won't waste my breath on this child's game." Her heels clicked against the polished floor, a faint trace of rose perfume lingering as she exited, the door clicking shut behind her with finality.
The moment the latch fell, Louis moved. In a flash, he grabbed Sofia's wrist, yanking her toward the study table and pinning her against it. The wood groaned under her weight, papers and pens clattering to the floor in a chaotic cascade.
She thrashed, her hands shoving against his chest, but his grip was unyielding, his fingers warm against her skin. "Let go!" she hissed, her pulse hammering, the faint scent of his soap clean and sharp invading her senses.
Louis's eyes darkened, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He hated her her bratty sass had plagued him for years, tormenting him with every sharp word and defiant glare yet something lately, maybe teen hormones or that untamable mouth, made her presence magnetic, impossible to shake. His breath hitched as he leaned in, his voice a teasing growl that sent a shiver down her spine. "How about you say sorry first? A kiss for barging in—fair deal, right? Or are you too proud to admit you're in the wrong?"
Sofia's face ignited, her pride flaring like a torch, her free hand balling into a fist. "Kiss you? I'd swallow dirt first! You're delusional, Astor—thinking I'd stoop to your level."
Her retort sparked a fire in him, anger flaring in his eyes like a storm. Without warning, he hoisted her onto the table's edge, her legs dangling as she gasped, the edge digging into her thighs. He snatched a sticky note from the desk, scribbling "sorry" in his messy scrawl, and pressed it to her forehead, his fingers brushing her skin a beat too long, warm and rough. "Happy now?" he muttered, irritation lacing his tone, his face inches from hers.
"Better than nothing," she snapped, sliding off and storming out, the note flapping against her skin like a mocking flag.
In the hall, a ripple of giggles and chuckles followed her guards exchanged amused glances, a maid stifled a laugh behind her apron, and a butler coughed to hide his smirk, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. Sofia kept her head high, though her cheeks glowed with embarrassment.
Outside, the evening air was crisp, carrying the damp earth scent of Mrs. Astor's roses. "The Astors actually apologized, Roosevelt," Sofia declared, a triumphant lilt in her voice, though her heart still raced from the encounter.
Mrs. Astor's smile vanished, her blood simmering beneath the surface, but she masked it, planning a stern talk with Louis instead. Then, spotting the sticky note on her back , her frown morphed into mocking laughter, sharp and echoing through the garden. Sofia turned, baffled, the hose drip punctuating the silence. "What's so funny?".
Mrs. Astor stepped closer, almost affectionately came like hugging her , sofia was caught of by sudden affectionate thing , and plucked the note from Sofia's back with manicured fingers. Her eyes gleamed as she read Louis's messy handwriting: "Fuck the sorry, bratty mouth." She held it up, her laughter ringing out like bells, drawing a curious glance from a passing gardener.
Sofia's eyes widened, humiliation crashing over her like a wave, her face burning hotter than before. The rose garden fell silent, save for the soft drip of the hose and the rustle of leaves. Mrs. Astor's gaze hardened, her voice dripping with amusement. "My son settles scores his way, it seems. A sticky note instead of a bow how quaint."
Sofia clenched her fists, torn between rage and a strange flutter Louis's audacity stung, yet that note hinted at something raw, personal, beyond the feud. A guard peeked from the porch, whispering to another, their snickers barely audible over the breeze.
Her mind raced was this war shifting into uncharted territory, where insults masked something more? Before she could retort, Mrs. Astor tucked the note into her pocket, her smile turning cryptic.
"Perhaps you'll think twice before invading next time, dear. Or maybe you enjoy the view too much."
The challenge hung in the air, Sofia's heart pounding as she turned away, the weight of Louis's words and his grip lingering like a shadow. As she crossed the street, the sticky note's echo burned in her mind: bratty mouth. She ripped it off, crumpling it, but the words stuck. What was his game now? And why did her pulse quicken at the thought?