Chapter 5 Ophelia
I spend ten full minutes sitting on the tile, listening to my pulse thud in my ears and hating the silence that follows.
I don’t dare cry—he’d probably sense it through the walls, come back, and make me say thank you.
Instead, I smooth the skirt back down over my knees, gather the spilled books, and stack them in a neat row, like corpses waiting for burial.
If the bastard wanted me shattered, he should have sent something stronger than fingers and words.
I tell myself this three times before I believe it.
But fuck… I’ve never cum so hard.
The thought almost makes me break down.
A man so vile, bringing me to my knees. Fuck. That.
By the time I emerge from the library, it’s late, the corridors thinned of student life.
Only a few ghosts drift past: a pair of girls in the uniforms that cost more than my dad’s car, a janitor pretending not to notice my swollen face or the way my walk is just slightly off.
My insides ache, and my hand shakes when I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Dinner is long over, but maybe I can find some left-overs in the kitchen later. I just need to get somewhere quiet.
Somewhere safe.
I find my room dark and colder than before.
The window is cracked, a slip of moonlight bleeding through the blinds.
Someone’s left another note, slid under the door with the same care you’d use to feed a wild animal.
I crouch to pick it up. The envelope is unmarked but the seal is heavy wax, blue with a sigil that means nothing to me except the certainty that it’s bad news.
I rip it open.
Summons, it says. Board council, 10:00 sharp. 2A. Academy review.
Great. My first day isn’t even over, and already I’m on trial.
I lay down on my bed. The ceiling has started to feel like a lid, and I stare up at it until the lines blur and my eyes burn. Every time I try to close them, I see his face: the sneer, the flash of hunger, the moment he realized I wasn’t breaking for him.
The alarm blares at nine. I dress in the least-wrinkled shirt I own, one I ironed with a flat iron because that’s all I could afford to bring.
I brush my teeth until my gums bleed and tie my hair in a knot at the nape, the way my mom used to before she bailed.
I don’t look in the mirror. I already know what I’ll see.
I head to the West Wing early. The walk is just as long as the first time, each stretch a gauntlet of rich kids drinking bougie beer and pretending not to see me. The only ones who notice are the ones who want to—either because they enjoy a good public shaming, or because they smell new blood.
The door to the upper floor is locked, but a student in a fitted suit is waiting by the entrance. He says nothing, just hands me a second envelope and points to a bench. He stares at the wall the whole time, like he’s been trained not to look me in the eyes.
I sit. My leg starts bouncing. My shoes look like shit next to the marble.
At 10:00 sharp, the doors open, and he leads me in. It’s almost entirely empty. At the far end, four people sit waiting.
I catalog them before I even sit down:
First: Dr. Abelard. Silver hair, straight posture, a stare that says he’d rather be dissecting me than speaking to me.
Second: Ms. Valence, thin-lipped, eyes that squint with practiced calculation, skin so tight over her bones I wonder if she’s had it replaced with some kind of plastic wrap.
Third and fourth: Two others in dark suits, shadows thick around their faces, hands folded like they’re hiding claws.
No one asks me to sit, but the student points to the chair at the farthest end. I take it. The seat is hard as stone, and when I grip the arms, my fingers vanish in the carved grooves.
Dr. Abelard clears his throat. “Ms. Morrow. Thank you for your punctuality this time.”
His voice has all the warmth of a dental drill.
Ms. Valence leans forward, her thin, bony fingers tapping the table in a rhythm I can’t quite place. “We are pleased to see you are adapting to our traditions, even if the adjustment period is… strenuous.”
A file sits on the table in front of them, leather-bound, with my name etched in gold on the spine. Abelard opens it with the flourish of a magician revealing a card trick. He flicks through the pages, pausing on one.
“Your prior academic record is… interesting.” His eyes don’t lift from the page. “High marks in the sciences, but repeated citations for insubordination and minor theft.”
I clench my jaw. “Theft?”
Ms. Valence smiles, a slash of pink in her corpse-white face. “A laboratory pipette. A frog from biology. A test answer key.”
I almost laugh. “All returned, in good condition.”
This is not the correct answer, judging by Abelard’s frown.
The first of the two shadows finally speaks. His voice is lower, a rasp, each word weighed and judged before it leaves his lips. “You understand, Ms. Morrow, that our institution is not like the others you may have attended. Here, tradition is law. Deviations are… discouraged.”
“Understood.”
“Do you?” Ms. Valence rasps. She slides a crystal glass of water across the table. “This is not a place for those who wish to challenge hierarchy. We are all here for a purpose.”
I nod, taking the water. My fingers tremble on the glass, so I grip harder, turning them white.
“Good,” says Abelard, closing the file with a snap. He looks up, eyes sharp and black as a fresh bruise. “You are on a debt repayment. Your tuition and board are covered. However, your continued enrollment is contingent upon proper conduct and… respect for authority.”
“Understood,” I say, again. My tongue tastes metal.
Ms. Valence leans closer, her lips barely moving. “The other students are from families who have supported this Academy for centuries. Legacies. Heirs. You, on the other hand, are here for a… special circumstance.”
The shadow-man picks up. “Your father’s arrangement is highly irregular. It was not our preference to accept a debt transfer, but the Board is—how shall we say—magnanimous in its judgment.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “Is this a disciplinary meeting?”
Abelard’s smile is pure bone. “No, Ms. Morrow. This is a courtesy.”
His tone makes the word sound like a threat.
The next ten minutes are a blur of questions and thinly veiled warnings. Abelard’s words are always measured, never raising his voice, but every statement feels like a verdict. Ms. Valence punctuates each point with a tap of her ink-dusted bell, as if tolling the seconds until I’m found wanting.
When they ask about last night’s incident in the dining hall, I answer honestly. “I followed the ritual as instructed.”
Ms. Valence tips her head, eyes narrowing. “You understand that refusal is not tolerated?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” says Abelard. “Then we will have no issues moving forward.”
The second shadow speaks. “Your sponsor will ensure your compliance. You will report to him weekly. If there are any lapses, they will be addressed.”
They do not say how.
I grip the armrest so tight the wood creaks under my nails.
A pause. Then, the door opens.
I twist to look, and my stomach drops.
Caius Montgomery enters, his hair slicked back and a smile splitting his face. He sits across from me, draping his arm along the back of the chair like it’s a throne. His eyes meet mine, and I feel a flush creep up my face, heat and shame crawling up my neck like I’ve just been doused in gasoline.
He says nothing, just studies me with a cocky boredom. Then, with a subtle lift of his hand, he brings his fingers to his nose, and inhales.
The world tilts.
I cross my legs under the table, thighs clenched, refusing to fidget even as the memory of his touch sears my skin. I will not look away.
Abelard continues. “Mr. Montgomery is your sponsor, and he says you have been less than impressed with your attitude. He is well-versed in our traditions and expectations. He has expressed… interest in your successful transition. Your attendance at your classes is mandatory and thus far you’ve managed to miss every one except your very first. This is not acceptable.
Mr. Montgomery will ensure your attendance, or there will be repercussions. ”
The other members of the Board exchange glances, and I realize—too late—that this meeting is not about my education. It’s about ownership.
Ms. Valence taps the bell, softer this time. “Do you have questions for your sponsor?”
I drag my gaze from Caius’s eyes to the table, then back again. He’s still smiling, lips parted just enough to show the threat in his teeth.
I clear my throat. “No questions.”
He grins wider. “She learns fast.”
I think about stabbing him in the thigh with my pen, then about the way his fingers had made me shake, and hate myself for the way my heartbeat hitches at the memory.
The Board rises in unison, a wall of black robes and unsmiling faces. Abelard gestures to the door. “Dismissed. Mr. Montgomery will brief you further on your duties.”
We exit in silence. The corridor is empty, save for the echo of our steps. I keep my chin high, refusing to show how rattled I am.
Caius waits until we’re halfway down the hall before speaking.
“You didn’t cry,” he says. It’s not a compliment, but the shadow of a laugh.
“Why the fuck would I cry?”
He shrugs. “Go to your classes. Figure it out, I’ll be watching you. And next time I need you, don’t hesitate to come. You don’t want to displease me, do you?”
I don’t answer. The ache between my legs hasn’t faded, and every step is a reminder of how he touched me. I want to hate him, to spit in his face and tell him he’s nothing, but all I can do is keep walking.
At the stairwell, he stops. He looks at me for a long moment, the smile gone, replaced by something older and harder.
“They want you broken,” he says, voice low. “But I’m the only one who gets to watch you shatter and lick up the wreckage. Keep that in mind, little vixen.”