Ophelia #2
People call her a psycho, but that reflects more on them than on her.
She hides behind the attitude, always has.
Something changed in her long ago, the bright, golden girl slipped away, and in her place came this reckless rebel, forever testing limits, forever testing herself.
She never admits what truly weighs on her, never lets the cracks show. She buries it all and carries on.
I only wish she’d let it out, cry, tell me what shifted, but as the years have passed, I’ve given up hope of that. Now she seems more determined than ever to keep the pretence alive.
She snatches up her bag and her coffee, and together we leave her dorm.
The lift carries us down, and outside the air greets us, colder than the sun suggests.
A black car waits at the curb, the driver suited and expressionless as he steps forward to open the door.
We slide inside. Within minutes, we’re at the foot of the main building. When we step out, I murmur a quiet “Thank you.”
He doesn’t respond beyond a curt nod, his gaze already sliding past us.
The grounds are buzzing, students everywhere, some filing into the main hall, others loitering in clusters.
Our car pulls away, and for a moment the crowd stills. Every eye turns to us.
Then the whispering begins. Fingers point, not only at us, but back down the private road that leads to our dorms. My brow tightens.
Gossip is nothing new, the photograph of us already circling online proves that, but today they seem almost fevered with it.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Octavia snaps at a cluster of girls.
“Crazy bitch,” one mutters under her breath, practically begging for an early death.
Octavia moves, a single step forward, but I catch her wrist before she can scalp the girl on the spot.
This is our rhythm, I hold her back, because Octavia and patience have never belonged in the same sentence. She loses her temper in an instant, forever courting trouble.
“Let’s go,” I hiss, tugging her along before the situation unravels, too early in the day, and far too early in the term.
We thread down the long corridor, doors lined on either side, then climb the stairs to the main hall. Half the seats are already taken, rows fill fast.
We slide into the front left, as places are assigned by dorm. Piper sits there, head bent over a book.
I slip in beside her and set my bag at my feet. Octavia drops into the chair on my other side. I lift my cup to my lips and let my eyes sweep the room. The whispering has not stopped, if anything, it has grown louder.
Soon the headmistress steps onto the stage. She taps the microphone, and the crackle pulls the room to order.
At some point the seats around me had filled, though I hadn’t noticed, too lost in my own thoughts.
“Good morning,” she begins, her voice carrying across the vast hall. “Welcome back to another year at St Monarché Institute. I trust your summer months have afforded you both rest and reflection, and that you return prepared for the work that lies ahead.”
“As you know, this academy was founded not merely as a place of study, but as a house of heirs, a crucible for legacies and dynasties. We are here to shape you into the men and women your families, and indeed the world, will one day look to for leadership. Here, you will learn discipline, ambition, and resilience.”
A murmur ripples through the hall as the great doors swing open. Even the headmistress hesitates.
Adelaide walks in, chin high, her face unreadable. She doesn’t so much as glance our way before sliding into the seat beside Piper, who sits stiff, her hands knotted tightly in her lap.
The doors swing open again. Three men step inside, and the air changes, whispers sharpening into a restless buzz.
Octavia twists in her seat, eyes narrowing, every line of her body wound tight. “What are they doing here?” she spits. Her gaze cuts to Adelaide next, jaw clenched. “I can’t fucking believe you’d let them in.”
Adelaide turns just enough to meet our eyes. The smirk she sends is cruel. My chest tightens as I stare at one of my closest friends and find no trace of her left.
I drop my gaze to my lap, forcing my heartbeat to settle before it gives me away. That’s when I see the shoes in front of me.
Slowly, my eyes climb, over dark, tailored denim, and a fitted shirt that draws clean lines across his frame, and then to his face.
The man before me is beautiful.
Devastatingly so.
Dark hair swept neatly back, cheekbones cut high, his mouth set in a line that betrays nothing.
But it’s his eyes that undo me, blue, midnight dark.
They hold me still, as though he cannot decide whether to strangle me or kiss me.
When his gaze catches on the stitches at my temple, a flicker crosses his face, gone before I can place it.
I should look away, but I don’t.
I’m unable to.
My chest constricts with every breath I take.
Too many feelings rush through me, safety, dread, longing, each one colliding with the next.
Who is he, and why does his presence feel both ruinous and inevitable?
Then he breaks the stare and walks on, dropping into one of the seats with the others.
Only then do I realise he’s taken a place in the row reserved for the other private dorm, identical to ours.
The headmistress clears her throat and carries on, but her words scarcely reach me.
His presence burns at my right. When I turn my head and green meets midnight blue, I am no longer here.
It comes in flashes… his smile, warm, tender, almost adoring. In the next instant, the same smile twisted and cruel.
Then the crimson follows.
Too much of it.
I blink hard, but the image lingers, refusing to release me. My chest knots, my temples pound, my breath comes in broken bursts.
I can’t…
I push to my feet too fast. My cup tips, coffee spilling across the floor as every head turns. Octavia starts to rise, but I hold her back.
Somehow I make it down the aisle, vision blurring, my legs treacherous beneath me.
The corridor beyond is mercifully empty.
I catch the wall for balance, focus on the chair at the far end, but my knees buckle.
The floor tilts, darkness crowding in, and I know my skull is about to meet the cold stone…
But strong arms close around me.
And then his scent—foreign, yet achingly familiar.