Mason blinked.
"To... my place?"
"Yeah." Sophia's voice grew excited, like a kid with a new toy. "I've never been to a friend's house for dinner before. Back home, it was always the chef cooking, or we'd go to restaurants. I want to see... how regular people make dinner."
She seemed to realize she'd said something wrong and quickly added, "Not that your place is regular, I mean—that came out wrong... I just..."
"I know what you mean." Mason cut her off, a smile tugging at his lips. "Come on. Let's go to the supermarket."
Sophia paused, then her face lit up with a radiant smile.
---
The afternoon sun streamed through the giant windows of the supermarket, casting dappled light across the shelves. Sophia pushed the cart like a kid in a candy store, curious about everything.
"What's this?" she asked, picking up a package of pasta and studying the label intently.
"Pasta."
"I know it's pasta. I meant this shape." She pointed at the spiral noodles. "We always have the straight kind at home. I've never seen these."
"Rotini." Mason took the package from her and dropped it in the cart. "Good for salads, or with tomato sauce."
Sophia nodded, then grabbed a bottle of olive oil, examining the origin information on the label carefully."This is from Tuscany. I went there when I was little. One of my grandfather's friends had an estate there. We used to go for summers."
Her voice carried a hint of nostalgia.
Mason watched her for a moment. "You traveled a lot as a kid?"
"Yeah." Sophia nodded, placing the oil in the cart. "My grandfather always said you have to see the world to understand how small you really are. So every summer, we'd go somewhere different. Europe, Asia, Africa... all over."
"Sounds nice."
Sophia was quiet for a second, then let out a small laugh.
"Yeah," she said, though her tone held a complicated edge. "It was nice. But also... lonely."
Mason didn't pry. He just grabbed a pack of beef from the shelf and tossed it in the cart.
They kept browsing, the cart filling up—beef, pasta, tomatoes, onions, garlic, olive oil, and a bottle of red wine.
At the checkout, Sophia insisted on paying.
"I've got it." She pulled out her wallet.
"Don't worry about it."
"I've got it!" She shot him a look, not angry, but with a childlike stubbornness. "You're cooking, I'm buying. Fair's fair."
Mason looked at her, shook his head with a small smile, and stepped aside.
The cashier rang everything up. "That'll be eighty-seven thirty-five."
Sophia handed over a black card. The cashier's eyes widened slightly, but his professionalism kept him quiet. He finished the transaction quickly.
Walking out of the store, Sophia carried two shopping bags, a satisfied smile on her face.
"You know, this is the first time I've ever bought anything myself," she said. "My assistant or the house manager always handled stuff like this."
"How does it feel?"
"Good." She said it earnestly. "Makes me feel... normal. Like a regular person."
Mason just looked at her, saying nothing.
*Normal.* The word carried a strange weight coming from her—equal parts longing and resignation.
---
Mason's apartment was in an older building in Silver Lake. The elevator was ancient, groaning slightly as it moved. Sophia followed him inside, taking in her surroundings with open curiosity.
"You live here?" she asked. No judgment, just curiosity.
"Yeah. Third floor."
The elevator doors opened onto a hallway lit by motion-sensor lights. Mason walked to 301, pulled out his keys, and unlocked the door.
"Come on in."
Sophia stepped inside and stood in the middle of the living room, looking around. Small space, simple furniture, but clean and tidy. A healthy pothos plant sat on the windowsill. A stack of books on the coffee table caught her eye—*Fundamentals of Herbal Medicine*, *A Guide to Natural Therapies*, *Studies in Traditional Medicine*—titles she'd never heard of.
She walked to the window and looked out at the city below.
"Nice view," she said.
"You can see part of L.A." Mason set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. "Have a seat. I'll cook."
"I'll help." Sophia turned and came to stand beside him. "I can wash stuff. Chop stuff. Might be clumsy at it, but I can try."
Mason glanced at her, then nodded. "Alright. You wash the tomatoes and onions."
Sophia rolled up her sleeves, revealing pale, slender wrists, and got to work washing the vegetables. Her movements were a little awkward but focused, like she was performing a sacred ritual.
Mason started slicing the beef nearby, occasionally stealing glances her way. Sunlight streamed through the window, falling across her face, softening her profile. Her lashes cast faint shadows on her cheeks as she worked, a slight smile playing at her lips.
"You know," she said suddenly, not looking up, "I read this book when I was little. It said happiness is cooking with someone you like, eating with someone you like. I didn't get it back then. What's so great about cooking?"
She looked up and met his eyes. A faint blush crept across her cheeks.
"But now... I think I kind of get it."
Mason's heart skipped a beat.
"Yeah. Happiness isn't about how much you have. It's about how much you feel. Money can buy a house, but not a home. A bed, but not sleep. Company, but not... that feeling in your chest." He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly.
Sophia held his gaze for a few seconds, then looked away, focusing on her washing.
The kitchen filled with the sound of running water, the rhythmic chop of the knife, and the soft rhythm of their breathing. The silence wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. A wordless understanding.
---
An hour later, dinner was ready.
Spaghetti with tomato-meat sauce, seared steak, garlic bread, and the bottle of red wine. Simple food, but carefully plated.
They sat on the floor around the small coffee table in the living room. Sophia poured two glasses of wine and slid one toward Mason.
"Cheers," she said, raising hers.
"Cheers."
Their glasses clinked softly.
Sophia took a bite of the pasta, and her eyes lit up instantly.
"Delicious!" She looked at Mason, genuinely surprised. "Seriously. How do you make this? It's better than a lot of restaurants."
"Practice." Mason took a bite himself. "Back when I worked at a convenience store, I had to cook for myself all the time. Learned a bunch of cheap, easy recipes to save money."
Sophia watched him, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes.
"Convenience store?"
"Yeah. Used to work the night shift at a place called Lucky 711." Mason's tone stayed even, like he was telling someone else's story. "The owner was a jerk. Constantly skimped on pay. After rent and bills, I'd have maybe a hundred and fifty dollars left for two weeks."
Sophia fell silent.
"How... how did you get by?" she asked softly.
Mason thought about it, then smiled faintly. "Just... got by. Instant noodles, day-old bread, expired sandwiches. Sometimes I'd be so hungry I couldn't sleep, so I'd just drink water. Water's free."
Sophia's eyes reddened. She looked down at her plate, pretending to eat, but her fork barely moved.
"You okay?" Mason asked.
"Fine." She looked up, forcing a smile. "It's just... you've been through so much."
"It's in the past." He shrugged. "Things are better now. Eat up—the steak'll get cold."
Sophia nodded and took another bite, but her mind clearly wasn't on the food.
After a moment, she set down her fork and took a long sip of wine.
"Mason," she said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"What about... your parents?"
The room went still.
Mason's grip on his glass tightened, then relaxed.
"Gone," he said, still calm. "My parents split when I was seven. Sent me to live with my grandmother. She died when I was thirteen. Went to my uncle's place after that. He didn't really want me around. Felt like a burden. Graduated college at twenty-two, came to L.A., thought I'd start over, but..."
He trailed off, but the meaning was clear.
Sophia couldn't hold back anymore. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have asked..." She wiped at her face frantically.
"It's okay." Mason handed her a tissue. "All in the past."
Sophia took it, dabbed at her eyes, and took another sip of wine. Her cheeks were flushed—partly from the alcohol, partly from emotion. She looked softer than usual.
"You know, Mason..." Her voice trembled slightly. "I've never met anyone like you. Never..."
She didn't finish, but Mason understood.
He looked at her—at her flushed face, her tear-filled eyes—and felt something complicated stir inside him. Tenderness. Warmth. And something else he couldn't quite name.
"Sophia," he said gently.
"Hmm?"
"I think you've had a little too much."
Sophia blinked, then laughed. It was a laugh tinged with both sadness and defiance.
"No, I haven't," she said. "I just... I just want to say what's in my heart for once. You know, my whole life, my family's protected me too much. I've never gone anywhere alone. Never made my own decisions. Never... never been to a guy's place for dinner."
She looked around the small apartment, her eyes holding no disdain—only curiosity and longing.
"It's small. The furniture's old. But I love it." Her voice was soft. "Because here, I'm just Sophia. Not a Rockefeller. Nobody wants anything from me. Nobody's scheming. Nobody's using me. Nobody's..."
She trailed off because Mason had reached out and gently taken her hand.
Sophia froze. Her heart stopped for a beat.
His hand was big, warm, steady. Grounding.
"Go on," Mason said quietly, his voice low and gentle.
**At that moment, Mason could feel the weight of all the emotions she'd held inside for so long. He wanted her to let it out. Because once she walked out that door, she'd have to become the heiress again. The one the world saw.**
**The world saw Sophia at charity galas in custom midnight-blue gowns and inherited diamond necklaces, standing gracefully among the crowd. Smiling at every guest. Nodding at the right moments. Raising her glass with perfect poise. Cameras followed her. The next day, newspapers would run her photo with captions like "Rockefeller Heiress Stuns at Charity Gala."**
**But the reality was different.**
**The dress wasn't her color—the stylist had chosen it. The necklace was too heavy, digging into her neck, but she couldn't take it off. It was her grandmother's. "You have to wear it," they said. She smiled and made small talk while counting down the hours—two more until she could leave. She'd heard it all a hundred times: "Miss Sophia, you look beautiful." "The Rockefellers are truly remarkable." "You remind me so much of your grandmother." She responded politely, her smile flawless, while thinking: *Do they even know my name? Or just my last name?***
**The world saw a girl who'd received the finest elite education. Piano, violin, French, horseback riding, etiquette—her schedule packed from dawn to dusk with expert instructors. "This is what true aristocracy looks like," people said. "A real head start in life."**
**The reality? She started piano at five. Two hours a day, rain or shine. Once, she had a fever—101.5. She asked her mother, "Can I skip practice today?" Her mother replied, "Sophia, Rockefellers don't quit over a little fever." She sat at the piano, fingers weak, hitting wrong notes. Her teacher frowned. "Sophia, you're distracted today." She wanted to cry, but held back because "ladies don't cry in front of others."**
**When she was ten, she secretly played with a maid's daughter, a girl a year younger. They played hide-and-seek in the backyard, running until they were sweaty and breathless. It was the first time Sophia realized running could be *fun*. Later, the maid was fired. Sophia never knew why, and she never saw the girl again. As she grew older, she understood: in a family that valued profit over affection, that girl "wasn't worthy" of being her friend.**
**Jeffrey first appeared when she was fifteen. A family-arranged dinner. He sat across from her and spent the whole night talking to her father. She overheard him say, "If the Astors and Rockefellers join forces, the East Coast market is ours." She kept eating, pretending not to understand.**
**More dinners followed. She was always seated next to some "suitable" young man. They'd chat, take walks, visit galleries. She knew they were assessing her—her breeding, her conversation, her value.**
**Jeffrey got handsy when he drank. Spencer looked at her like merchandise. Archibald didn't care what she said, as long as she smiled. She handled it all alone, wearing that perfect smile, while thinking: *Is this who I'm supposed to marry? Is this my whole life?***
Sophia looked at him, and fresh tears came—but these were happy tears.
"Thank you, Mason," she whispered. "Thank you for letting me just... be myself."
They sat there, hands intertwined, neither speaking. Outside, the city glittered with lights, but inside this tiny apartment, time seemed to stand still.
After a long moment, Sophia slowly leaned over and rested her head against Mason's shoulder.
Mason tensed for an instant, then relaxed. He lifted his free hand and gently draped it around her shoulders.
Her hair smelled faintly of something floral. Her breathing was soft and even. He could feel the warmth of her body through their clothes.
"Mason," she murmured.
"Yeah?"
"Do you... do you think I'm being too forward?"
Mason paused, then let out a quiet laugh.
"No."
"Really?"
"Really. If anything, I should thank you. Not for what you did tonight, but for... for making me realize what it feels like when someone genuinely cares about you."
Sophia lifted her head and looked at him. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright. Lips slightly parted.
"What if I told you I'm not actually drunk?"
Mason didn't answer. He just looked at her.
Sophia settled back against his shoulder with a soft sigh.
"Okay, maybe a little drunk," she admitted. "But I meant every word."
Silence again.
After a while, Mason spoke. "Sophia."
"Yeah?"
"You tired? Want to lie down in the bedroom for a bit? I'll clean up and wake you later, drive you home."
Sophia looked up at him. Her eyes held a flicker of hesitation, anticipation, and shyness.
"Can I?"
"Of course."
She bit her lip, then nodded slowly.
"Okay."