Chapter Seventeen: "Dinner at Sophia’s? Mom’s Got That Look"
Sophia Winters spotted Ethan Black approaching with her meds and nudged her mom, Eleanor Winters. "Mom, Ethan's back." Eleanor's mom-radar was already pinging. She knew her daughter's icy vibe—Sophia didn't let anyone close. Yet, from Sophia's tone, Eleanor sensed a vibe shift. And the mall-to-hospital trek? Sophia hadn't spilled how she got here with a sprained ankle. No way she limped out herself. That left Ethan—either扶着 (supporting) or full-on carrying her.
Eleanor's eyes narrowed. Sophia hadn't protested, which was wild. If some rando tried helping, Sophia would've frozen them out. But Ethan? She was cool with him. Maybe more than cool. Eleanor wasn't born yesterday—her daughter might have a crush, even if she didn't know it. When Ethan strolled up, Eleanor's gaze turned full Meet the Parents—part mom, part CIA.
"Hey, Mrs. Winters," Ethan said, polite but sweating under her stare.
"Hello, Ethan," Eleanor replied, smiling but dissecting him like a frog in bio class.
"Sophia, here's your meds," Ethan said, handing her the bag. "This one's twice a day, this one's for swelling…" He rattled off the doc's instructions like a pro. Sophia nodded, memorizing it instantly. Campus dubbed her the Ice Queen, but she was also a brainiac—straight-A's, scholarships on lock, plus rumored skills in piano, dance, and karaoke nights that left jaws dropped.
Eleanor watched, impressed. Ethan was caring, responsible, and not bad to look at. First test: passed. But boyfriend material? That needed more vetting.
Time to bounce—hospital vibes were grim. Ethan offered to carry Sophia again, purely for efficiency, obviously. He was a gentleman, not a creep. But Eleanor shot him a look that said, Not on my watch, Romeo. So, they flanked Sophia, each taking an arm, and shuffled her out like a fragile VIP.
Outside, Eleanor's car waited—a $150,000 Mercedes S-Class, black, with a plate reading "WST888." Ethan helped Sophia into the backseat. Eleanor turned, all smiles. "Ethan, you've been a star. Come over for dinner sometime—our treat!"
"Uh, maybe next time," Ethan dodged, spooked by her future son-in-law glare. "It's late. Rain check?"
"Deal," Eleanor said, locking it in. "Sophia'll text you to set it up."
Ethan nodded, trapped. Great, now I'm on the mom's radar. Sophia waved weakly, still pink-cheeked, as Eleanor drove off. Ethan stared at the plate: "WST888." Wait… Winters' 888? Westfield's elite loved low-key flexes—custom plates with meaning, not just numbers. "888" was lucky, but "WST"? That screamed Winters family clout. Sophia wasn't just a rich girl; her folks were connected. "Her dad's probably got senators on speed dial," Ethan muttered.
He hopped into his Bentley and cruised to Villa #8. En route, he texted Abby Carter, spilling the mall drama—Sophia's sprain, the hug, the hospital run. Abby replied: "Dang, thought you bagged her already! But this? You're halfway there, Romeo. P.S. My lobster dinner's still on you!" Ethan laughed. Abby's seafood obsession was relentless, but she was thrilled his "Sophia arc" was heating up.
At the villa, Ethan flopped on his Fendi couch, scrolling X while waiting for the game's midnight refresh. Then—ping—a WeChat from Sophia. His heart skipped. The Ice Queen texting first?
Sophia: Thanks for today. Ankle's sore but I'm good. Mom says you're invited over—don't let her scare you lol.
Ethan grinned, typing back: No prob. Tell your mom I'm not ready for the inquisition yet.
As he hit send, his phone buzzed:
[Auto-Purchase Detected: Global Media Conglomerate, $100.00 – Acquired]
[Next Suggested Item: Intercontinental Defense Grid, $150.00]
[Warning: Reality's Gone Rogue. Lock In.]
Ethan's pulse spiked. A media empire? And what's an "Intercontinental Defense Grid"? He glanced out the window—headlights. That black SUV, parked across SkyHigh Estates' gate, engine idling. They're not fans. Sophia's text, her mom's invite, and now a global media takeover? Ethan's game was rewriting reality—and someone was watching every move.