Ophelia
The last few days of our trip pass in a blur.
After our Thanksgiving dinner, where Milo complained through half the meal about the absence of a vegan turkey, it was surprisingly pleasant.
For once, there were no arguments worth remembering, just laughter and warmth and the hum of music that made the chalet feel alive.
In the days that follow, the others spend their time skiing, snowboarding, or finding new ways to nearly get themselves killed on the mountain.
I stay behind.
Partly because I want to, partly because Arlo can’t go anywhere with his injured ankle.
He grumbles every time I bring him tea or insist he rests, but he lets me fuss.
We don’t talk about anything heavy anymore.
In fact, we barely talk at all.
Whenever I try, he finds a way to stop me.
First with his mouth on mine, then with his cock buried so deep that in that moment, nothing exists but us.
And all I can feel, all I can think about, is him.
His presence, his scent, his touch.
He does it on purpose. Keeps me close, keeps me busy, keeps me from asking the questions he doesn’t want to answer.
And I let him.
Because for all the wrong reasons, I need it too.
Our suitcases lie open across the bed, half packed. Outside, snow drifts past the window.
We’re flying back together, one jet for all of us. Back to the island, to the academy.
Back to the facade of normality.
There are still a few weeks left of term before the Christmas break, but I dread it already, knowing I’ll have to go home to Florence for the holidays. Still, that’s a thought for another day.
For now, I fold another sweater into my case and glance at Arlo as he finishes zipping his own bag.
The driver is already waiting by the time we finish packing. We load our bags into the car, large enough to fit us all.
The drive to the airstrip is short. Pine trees line the road, their branches heavy with snow, sunlight breaking through in fractured streaks.
No one speaks much. That quiet heaviness settles, the kind that always comes when something good ends.
Because despite everything, we all felt it. We’d had a good time. We’d let ourselves forget the world outside, our problems, our loyalties, the weight of who we are.
It felt good while it lasted.
By the time we reach the airfield, Isaak’s jet is already waiting, the engines humming low.
We board, settle in, and soon the world outside tilts and falls away.
I watch the mountains shrink beneath us, white fading to grey, then to the endless blue beyond.
Hours later, the island breaks through the clouds, dark cliffs looming over the sea, the familiar silhouette of St. Monarche? rising.
It feels strange to be back.
Another car takes us toward the academy. When it stops in front of the dorms, I’m the first to step out.
The air is warmer here, yet somehow feels colder, carrying that familiar mix of salt and rain.
We start unloading our bags, the low murmur of conversation filling the quiet.
Then I stop.
The door to our building opens, and someone steps out.
For an instant, I think I’m imagining it. My breath catches, my pulse falters.
“Eleanor,” I whisper, disbelief and relief colliding in my chest.
She looks up, her brown eyes meeting mine.
It’s her.
Eleanor.
But not the girl I remember.
The Eleanor I knew had light in her eyes and laughter. This version looks… hollow. Her skin is pale, her gaze dimmed, her shoulders drawn in as though she’s carrying something too heavy to name.
Her lips part, but no sound comes. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Because the girl standing in front of me might have Eleanor’s face, but the spark that made her who she was is frighteningly absent.
I take a slow step toward her.
“Eleanor,” I whisper again.
She looks at me and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Her hair is mid length now, the ends freshly trimmed, her fringe neatly cut across her forehead. She looks well… too well, almost.
She’s wearing a light grey sweatshirt with matching joggers and white trainers. There’s a touch of makeup on her face, but not enough to hide how pale she is.
On the surface, she looks fine. Healthy, even.
But her expression tells another story. She just looks lost.
Octavia steps closer beside me, seeing the same thing I do. Adelaide and Piper join, the four of us forming a circle around her.
Questions burn in my throat, where she’s been, what happened, why she disappeared, but when I open my mouth, only three words come out.
“I missed you.”
She startles slightly at my voice, but she doesn’t move away, so I close the small distance between us and wrap my arms around her. It takes her a moment to respond, but then her hands come up, tentative, returning the hug.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I whisper against her shoulder.
She nods, gives another small smile, still empty, and steps back.
Adelaide watches her closely, her eyes sharp and assessing, the way she does when she’s trying to read someone’s truth without them saying it aloud.
We all see it, but none of us dare say it.
A sound from the men’s dorm makes me look up.
Arlo, Isaak, Hunter, and Milo stand near the entrance, speaking with a man I don’t recognise.
He’s taller than any of them, lean, strong, put together in a way that draws attention without trying. There’s something almost graceful about him, but it doesn’t make him soft. Even from here, he feels dangerous.
His hair is black, cut just above his eyes.
His gaze drifts across the courtyard and lands on Eleanor. It stays there, blank, and something tightens in my chest.
“Who is that?” I murmur.
Adelaide follows my gaze. “Ido Renford,” she says, her tone low.
“Heir to a major American tech dynasty, at least, that’s what the papers say.
But rumour has it he’s something else entirely.
An assassin with ties to the Bratva. Likely how he knows Isaak and the others.
” She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“No one’s ever been able to prove it. He was adopted into the Renford family in New York, raised elite, but whispers follow him everywhere. ”
I nod slowly, letting the information settle.
When I glance back, Arlo’s eyes are already on me, that familiar midnight blue meeting green.
The moment stretches, silent and charged, before he looks away. My chest aches in a way I wish it didn’t.
Now that we’re back at St. Monarche?, I suppose everything will slip into place again. The same routines.
The same masks.
Still, I’m foolish enough to hope it won’t.
Eleanor clears her throat softly. “I won’t keep you,” she says, her voice calm. “I’ve got a meeting with the dean.”
She moves past us down the path, and we all watch her go.
I make a motion to reach for my bag, but before I can, someone else gets there first. I look up, startled.
Arlo.
He doesn’t say a word. His face stays blank, that hard, calm look that somehow feels more dangerous than anger ever could. For a second, his eyes catch mine, and there’s something there I can’t quite name. Then he turns and walks toward the dorms.
I follow, saying nothing.
The lift hums quietly as it carries us up. The silence between us feels tight. When the doors open, I step out first and unlock my room. He sets my bag just inside and straightens, still silent.
I watch him go. His shoulders are stiff beneath his coat. He doesn’t look back.
I close the door, lean against it, and let my head rest there for a moment, eyes shut, trying to steady my breathing.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Eleanor is back, but she isn’t whole. I don’t know where she’s been or what she’s endured.
I should feel relieved, but unease coils beneath my ribs instead.
And under that unease, I find fear.
Now that we’re back at the academy, I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to fall apart again.
Adelaide and my sister will probably be at each other’s throats. Piper will retreat into herself. As for Eleanor, I don’t even know what to expect anymore.
And me… I still don’t have my memories back. I can already feel Arlo pulling away, as though whatever existed between us on that holiday has vanished into the cold.
He’s building walls I can’t seem to cross, and I hate myself for ever trying to. Yet my chest aches, unreasonably, at anything that seems to circle back to him.
That’s when the fear creeps in again. Now that I’m back, I dread finding those notes everywhere I go.
I choose to believe that they were just in my head, that maybe they were never real at all. But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s a lie.
I push it aside for now and head for the shower, trying to wash away the heaviness settling beneath my skin.
That night, I stay in my room.
Alone.
The television murmurs softly in the background while my knitting needles move in a constant rhythm.
It’s peaceful, in a way that almost hurts. After days filled with noise and laughter, the silence feels too empty.
I fall asleep thinking about tomorrow morning, about finally seeing Bellamy.
The girl from first year who’s been looking after him said he’s been restless without me.
The thought makes me smile, faintly.
At least I’ll have him.
At least there’s still one corner of my world untouched.