Even in sleep, the body remembers what the mind forgets
Night sits over the Montez house like a closed fist.
The living room is dim except for a single lamp near me, pooling a warm circle of light around the laptop. Everything else is drowned in quiet shadow; the kind of quiet that helps thoughts knock louder in your head.
I scroll through another page of search results, jaw tight.
Clint Harlow.
I keep expecting to find something; an accusation, a criminal tie, a bribery scandal, anything... but his record might as well be vacuum-sealed by angels.
Flawless reputation. Charity galas. Community speeches. Articles calling him "Victor Montez's Right Hand."
To the public, Clint and Victor weren't boss and employee—they were presented like a duo, a powerhouse. Equal footing. Equal influence. Like another government.
It's an illusion.
A curated friendship.
The more I scroll, the more perfect it becomes... and the more wrong it feels.
There's a picture of Clint with his arm around Victor's shoulders, both smiling at some event. To someone who doesn't know better, you'd assume Clint was next in line for the empire. Maybe that's exactly what he wanted people to think.
I click on a video thumbnail.
Victor stands at a press conference podium, dressed in black, grief painted so convincingly across his face you'd almost think he felt it. It's not that I hate the guy, I just don't like him. I know better than to believe a smiling face which has powerful influence on the public.
"We send our heartfelt condolences to the West family... A tragic fire. Our thoughts are with young Grey"
My name leaves his mouth like he's actually human. I stare at the screen, my jaw locked. The same story populates beneath the video; repeated, twisted, sensationalized.
Family Killed in Car Explosion
Nineteen-Year-Old Grey West Survives Inferno
Investigation Suggests Petrol Leak — Engine Failure
Explosion Originated From Front of Car
Was It Negligence? Son Last Behind the Wheel
Some of them are worse: Son Drove Parents to Their Death?
I inhale slowly through my teeth. People love monsters. When they can't find one, they mold someone into the silhouette.
I open the official report for the fifth, maybe tenth, time tonight.
Blast originated from the front engine area. Gas leak. Ignited with another flammable substance.
I re-read the lines again. And again. Then I close my eyes, my mind travelling to traumatic memory in the car. Because I remember.
I remember the flash coming from behind me. The heat swallowing the seats, my body hitting the steering wheel, the smoke clawing up my throat... It didn't add up. Front engine leak?
No. It wasn't possible.
Something in these reports is fabricated or purposefully wrong. I rub a hand across my jaw, leaning back. It doesn't make sense, but nothing about the accident has ever sat right in my mind. I went back to Clint and Victor. Maybe they were connected, because why would they speak up–
A sound breaks the silence above me.
Soft shuffling. Bare feet. Uneven rhythm. Sophie.
I close the tabs instantly, minimizing every trace of investigation. She doesn't need to see me digging into the people she already distrusts; or the trauma I carry like a second spine.
Footsteps descend the stairs. I look up and pause as I see her. Sophie's wearing panda-print pajamas. I've seen her in immaculate suits, pressed collars, heels that echo authority. But now she's wrapped in soft cotton, hair loose, face bare, expression blank. She looked almost... cute.
I bury that thought as I avoid potential eye contact, focusing on the laptop screen. I hear her steps and they are slow. Measured. Too steady and too lost at the same time. It didn't sound like Sophie.
Then I see it. Her hazel eyes. But they were closed. She's sleepwalking.
She drifts past the railing, turns toward the living room without hesitation, as if pulled by invisible strings. She walks in a soft arc around the couch and lowers herself beside me; smooth, robotic, unaware.
Then she leans in. Gently.
Her head rests on my shoulder.
My breath goes still. Her weight is warm, steady but unexpected. Everything about this moment feels wrong and right; sharp and soft; dangerous and delicate. Sophie Montez doesn't let people see her vulnerable.
Yet here she is, trusting me without knowing it. She was leaning on me without a choice. Looking nothing like the empire's heiress. That image was definitely gone.
I sit motionless. Her breathing evens out quickly; slow, rhythmic. I see that she's fully asleep now, not drifting.
Minutes pass: Five. Ten. Fifteen.
I close my laptop silently and set it on the coffee table. Careful not to jolt her, I shift slightly, sliding an arm around her back, lifting her with the ease that comes with training; and the loss of appetite I see that she had.
She feels small. Heck, she was small. Not weak—no, never that—just... human. A side of her no boardroom ever gets to see. I carry her up the stairs, footsteps soft against the carpet. I stop in front of her door.
Her rule echoes: "Never enter my bedroom without permission."
But she can't sleep on a couch. So, I half-close my eyes, focus on her bed only, no wandering, and lay her down on the mattress. She doesn't stir. One thing I've noticed, she flinches at sirens and trauma-reminders but she didn't wake up once after I touched her? She must've not slept like this since forever.
I straighten. Then look at the ten locks.
Ten.
For safety, or to keep something, or someone, out far, far away. Her fear clings to this doorway like dust. And she could unlock all of these when sleepwalking.
I step out, close the door gently.
---
I come down dressed, hair combed back, head clear. Sophie is in her usual place: tea, half-drunk; newspaper spread out. As calm as if last night never happened. I don't think she can remember what ever happens when she sleepwalks.
Her shoulders are stiff today. A deep contrast to last night.
She's reading the same headline for the third time, from the same newspaper.
Cup of Dreams Explosion — Investigation Ongoing
She touches the edge of the paper like the words might burn her fingers.
Miranda hands me my tea. I set it on the table, let it cool like always. Hot drinks aren't an option—not after fire carved itself into my memory. Heat triggers.
Sophie pretends not to notice the tremor in her fingers when police sirens echo faintly outside. I pretend not to notice her pretending.
But I watch her. Quietly. More carefully than ever.
This girl has a lot going on than just her visuals. She has traumatic memories and practically everything around her triggers them; which makes her firm exterior, more fragile.
---
Dust clouds the air, machines hum, workers shout. Sophie moves through them with her clipboard and protective vest, trying to blend in with the workforce instead of towering over them.
She sits beside the same middle-aged woman from yesterday, I heard her joking about Clint stealing Victor's position. They speak softly, but the woman keeps glancing at me, like I was the whole subject of conversation.
Then Clint walks toward me. His gait is too confident. Too casual. "Morning, Mr. West," he greets, hands in pockets. "Settling in?"
"Trying," I answer flatly.
He stands a little higher on the slope of dirt beside me, hands in his pockets, eyes drifting over the workers moving around the site. He looks like he's watching a machine he built—one he expects to keep moving regardless of who's crushed inside it.
"Well, I believe that you've settled in quite quickly," Clint says lightly. His tone is friendly, but it feels... curated. "Not many people manage to adjust this fast. Especially around Sophie."
I keep my gaze forward. "What do you mean?"
He gives an airy exhale, like I just confirmed a thought he already had. "She can be... particular."
I wait. He likes that –people waiting for him to elaborate. And he does.
"She has this... way of inserting herself into things," he continues, voice calm, measured. "Projects, decisions, responsibilities. Bigger roles than she's ready for."
Nothing in his tone cracks. He's relaxed. Almost indifferent. Only his eyes betray a slight glint of interest as they flicker toward Sophie across the lot.
"I thought she was doing well," I reply.
He hums. "Doing well and being fit for something aren't always the same." A beat. "She tries, of course. She wants to do right by the company. By Victor. Admirable, really."
"But...?" I press.
Clint's smile widens a fraction—just enough to feel rehearsed. "There's always a but, Mr. West. Sophie is... sensitive. And this world is not kind to sensitive people. They make rash judgments. Emotional decisions. They take things too personally."
I follow his gaze. Sophie is sitting with the same woman as yesterday; blue hard hat, warm smile, the kind of person who can talk while working without missing a beat. Sophie listens attentively. Smiles. The worker gestures something big with her hands, and Sophie chuckles silently, but genuinely.
Something inside Clint shifts. A tiny tension gathers around his jaw.
"See that?" he murmurs, almost fondly. Almost. "She can be charming when she wants to be. Endearing, even. But that doesn't make her stable."
I furrow my brow slightly. "Unstable how?"
Clint lifts a shoulder. "She misreads people. Misreads situations. Creates problems where there shouldn't be any. Victor had... ways of grounding her. Keeping her aligned."
"Aligned with what?" I ask quietly.
Clint's gaze drifts over the entire site, the steel beams, the trucks, the foundation lines. His voice turns thoughtful, just vague enough to avoid being pinned down. "With what this company needs," he says. "With what this... empire requires to stay intact."
He doesn't look at me as he says it. He doesn't need to.
"Empire," I repeat. "That's a strong word."
"Accurate, though." He finally glances at me, the wind pushing a bit of dust across his shoes. "This place runs on structure. Order. Precision. And some people..." He pauses. "They're wild cards."
I tilt my head. "You think Sophie is one?"
He gives a soft, almost regretful sigh. "Potentially. People like her? They don't mean to break things. They simply do. Eventually."
He watches her again, the way she pushes her hair back when it falls forward, the way her expression softens when she listens. There's something dark behind his calm stare... something covetous and resentful all at once.
Clint placed his hands into his pockets still as if this entire place belongs to him. "You see all this?" he says casually, nodding toward the steel frames being hoisted into place. "This project... It's her masterpiece. Her idea. She insisted."
I lift a brow. "Her?" Sophie, who practically grimaced when Clint mentioned this thing in her office?
"That surprises you," Clint observes smoothly. Not a question—an accusation wrapped as an insight.
I keep my tone even. "Back at her office... when you brought up this building, she didn't seem too fond of it. She looked irritated. Like she didn't want anything to do with it."
Clint laughs under his breath. A private, knowing sound. "Oh, Grey. You're new. You haven't learned yet." He tilts his head. "Sophie acts. Constantly. She likes pretending she doesn't care about something so she won't look too eager, too invested. It's her... defense mechanism."
I remain silent. Clint likes filling silence. He steps right into it. "She pitched this entire thing," he continues. "In detail. Vision, budget, design objectives. Then, once the board approved it, she passed it all to me." His smile tightens. "Said she had 'other priorities.'"
He air-quotes without actually lifting his hands. He doesn't need the gesture—the bitterness is already sewn into his voice.
"So, you're doing everything?" I ask.
"Well, yes. Because she doesn't want the pressure." His tone is mild, but the edge beneath it is unmistakable. "Sophie is good at ideas. Not so good at seeing them through." He glances toward her again. She's laughing with the worker woman, the sunlight reflecting off her glasses, her hands moving as she talks. She looks settled, even content.
Clint studies that image with clinical detachment. "She wants credit without responsibility," he says quietly. "She gets that from her father, I suppose. Victor always protected her. Shielded her from consequences."
I resist the instinct to frown. "You're sure this was her initiative?"
Clint's reply is instant. "Absolutely."
Too instant. He adds, "She even insisted this building would 'change everything.' Her words."
I think back to her expression in the office; controlled irritation, masked frustration, something like dread. She hadn't looked like someone proud of a project. She'd looked cornered.
I keep my voice steady. "Strange. She didn't seem excited."
"Again," Clint shrugs, "she acts. She hides. She plays small when she wants sympathy and plays bold when she wants admiration." He lifts his chin. "You'll see it eventually. The pattern."
He says it like he's doing me a favor. Like he's revealing a truth I'll thank him for later. I look over at Sophie again. She's listening intently to the worker, nodding along, legs crossed, shoulders relaxed under the light breeze.
She doesn't look like someone trying to manipulate an empire. She looks tired. Guarded. But also... human.
Clint continues, voice dropping lower. "This building will be a mess if someone doesn't take control. And it won't be her." A pause. "She'll blame everyone around her instead. That's what she does." There's a quiet firmness to his words, like a man speaking from experience... or one carefully crafting a story he wants me to believe.
I finally speak. "Or maybe she just seems like someone who's carrying too much on her own." Clint's smile is polite, practiced. "You're kind to assume that." He exhales a sigh, turning away. "But kindness won't survive long here, Mr. West. Not around someone like her."
His footsteps crunch against loose gravel as he walks toward the center of the site, leaving his warning hanging in the air like dust that refuses to settle.
I stay where I am, eyes drifting back to Sophie. And the more I watch, the less Clint's story fits.
Something here is wrong. But it isn't her. And suddenly, I am sure:
Clint Harlow is hiding something darker than incompetence.
He knows more about Victor's death.
He knows more about Sophie's threats.
And he's watching her with the eyes of a man who wants a throne that didn't fall into his lap.
As we head back to the car, Sophie walks in silence. Not scared, but just thinking. Processing. Rebuilding walls that cracked today. I walk a few steps behind, scanning the area, eyes on shadows, workers, machinery, Clint's lingering stare.
Sophie opens the car door, pauses, takes a breath she pretends she didn't need, and steps inside. I don't look away from Clint. He stands near the scaffolding, arms folded, expression unreadable.
But his eyes are speaking.
A warning.
Or a threat.
Or both.
And something settles in me then; dark, certain, anchored. Because protecting her isn't just a job anymore. It's instinct. It's duty. It's the only thing keeping old fire from swallowing me whole again. And if Clint—or anyone—lays a hand on her future...
They'll learn what real ash tastes like.