The Call Boy I Met in Paris – Episode 53
Ted noticed the location alert because Sophie’s icon had not moved for nearly an hour. She had told him she was meeting Stella and promised to send a message afterward, but none came. He called twice, received no answer, and abandoned patience on the third attempt. The café was only ten minutes away, though he crossed the distance in six.
Most of the evening crowd had gone by the time he arrived. A server was speaking anxiously to someone behind the counter, while Sophie sat collapsed in a booth near the window. Her bag lay open beside her, and an untouched cup of water had been placed near her hand.
“Sophie?” Ted reached her before the server could explain. Her skin was pale, her breathing shallow but steady, and she did not respond when he touched her shoulder. Fear moved through him with a force that made the room narrow around them.
He cupped her face gently. “Sophie, baby, wake up. Hey, it is me. It is Ted.” Her eyelids fluttered, but her gaze failed to focus. “Can you hear me?”
The server hurried over and said Sophie’s companion had left after claiming she was drunk. Ted looked at the nearly full glass and then at Sophie, who could barely hold herself upright. He had seen her drink before; this was not intoxication.
“Did anyone call an ambulance?” he demanded.
“She said her sister would arrange a car. We thought—”
“Her sister abandoned her.” Ted stopped himself before anger wasted more time. He called emergency services, described Sophie’s condition, and asked the staff not to clear the table. If Stella had put something in the drink, the glass might be the only evidence left.
Sophie stirred when he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Can you stand?” he asked. “We are getting you out of here.”
Her lips moved around a name he could not understand. She tried to rise, but her legs folded beneath her. Ted caught her before she hit the floor and lifted her against his chest while the server opened the door for the approaching paramedics.
Outside, two people still held up their phones. One stepped closer for a clearer view, asking whether Sophie Swift had been drinking with another man. Ted turned his body to shield her face and ordered them to move.
The question told him the humiliation was organized. Random customers did not identify Sophie in a dark café or wait outside for footage unless someone had invited them. Stella had not merely drugged her; she had arranged an audience.
Inside the ambulance, Sophie’s eyes opened briefly. “Painting,” she whispered. “Stella stole…”
“Do not talk.” Ted held her hand while the paramedic checked her pupils and blood pressure. “Save your strength. You are safe now.”
At the hospital, the doctor confirmed that her symptoms were consistent with a sedative and advised observation until it cleared her system. Ted requested toxicology testing and documented every detail he could remember, including the names of the café staff and the time he arrived.
Hours later, he brought Sophie home after the doctor permitted her to rest outside the hospital. She remained barely conscious, so he carried her inside and settled her carefully in bed. His anger returned each time he saw how helpless the drug had made her.
He pulled a chair close, unwilling to leave until she woke. Before he could sit, Sophie’s phone began vibrating repeatedly inside her bag.
Ted opened the notifications and found her name spreading across social media beneath photographs from the café. The first headline accused Sophie Swift of public intoxication and hinted that the man carrying her was not her husband.