Ophelia
Eighteen months earlier | Paris, France.
The man watching me is something else.
He looks like he’s stepped straight out of one of the romance novels Piper reads late into the night. I always roll my eyes and tell her they’re ridiculous. I lie. I secretly love them too.
But this, him, feels worse than fiction.
His hair is dark, styled just enough to look careless. His eyes aren’t one colour at all, blue, but shifting with the light, darker at the edges, pale in the middle.
His suit fits like it was made for him. Broad shoulders, defined jaw, and there’s no doubt what’s under that fabric.
Strong, lean… sinful. I can almost picture it, abs, the defined lines of a V, veins running along his forearms, every box, neatly ticked.
I catch myself staring and my cheeks warm. I did not just imagine what he’d look like without the suit.
He doesn’t have tattoos, at least none I can see, but he doesn’t need them. He looks too put together, but there’s something dangerous underneath it.
The way he looks at me makes it hard to think. There’s heat in it, barely contained, and I know it shouldn’t be there. Not for a stranger.
And yet I want to know his name. I want to hear it, say it, hold it on my tongue.
I want to make it mine.
I’ve never even been on a date in my life. I’ve never been allowed to.
Growing up in an Italian mafia family means every move I make has already been planned for me.
I was born a Bellanti daughter, an alliance waiting to happen. My father made sure I understood that early on.
No dating.
No scandals.
No men.
I’m to stay untouched, pure, a bargaining chip with a heartbeat.
But one look at this man, and I know I’d burn every rule my father ever made.
And that thought terrifies me.
My phone rings. I startle, tearing my gaze away and fumbling for it.
Octavia.
Her name lights up my screen and relief hits me all at once. I answer quickly, her voice spilling through the line.
She asks about Paris, and I tell her everything, the Tower, the view, the ridiculous price of champagne. She laughs when I mention the Louvre, says she’s jealous, and I tell her she should be.
I ask why she’s not here with me, but her tone changes. She goes quiet for a moment, then says she has to go.
I let out a breath and drop the phone back into my bag, but not before checking the time.
It’s later than I thought. Panic creeps up my chest, I didn’t even feel the hours go.
Father’s going to lose his mind if I’m late. I still have to figure out how to get back to the villa. Taxi, bus, anything.
I signal the waiter, pay quickly, and gather my things.
I force myself not to look back. To act normal. To have a little dignity and not behave like a lovesick idiot.
And then, of course, I look back.
He’s still there. His eyes find mine right away, like they never really left. The same intensity, hits me all over again.
I manage the smallest smile before forcing myself to turn away and walk out.
Outside, the air is cooler now. I breathe in deeply, tilt my face up to the sky, and close my eyes for a moment, just long enough to calm the rush in my chest.
I pull out my phone, open Maps, and start typing the villa’s address.
I feel someone behind me, and I don’t even have to turn to know who it is.
My breath stumbles. His warmth seeps through the space between us, his scent curling around me, wild berries mixed with something darker, like rain and smoke.
It’s intoxicating. It makes my knees weak.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.
I turn slowly, phone still in hand, and when I face him, he’s closer than I expected. I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. He’s even more beautiful up close. Dangerous, yes, but in that ruinous, impossible way that can’t be faked.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He smirks, knowing, and it’s devastating, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Then he says, “Did you really think I’d let you leave without your name… or your number?”
My heart stumbles. I don’t even think before I whisper, “Ophelia.”
He repeats it under his breath. “Ophelia.”
The way he says it, undoes me completely.
And just like that, I’m lost.
“What’s yours?” The words barely make it past my lips.
He leans in a little, close enough that I can feel his breath when he answers. “Arlo.”
I repeat it softly. “Arlo.”
His eyes shift, just slightly. A flicker of heat, of danger, of something I can’t name.
He looks at me for a long moment before taking my hand. “Come with me.”
And I do. Like a fool. I don’t even think about the risk of following a stranger, because with him, fear doesn’t register. Caution doesn’t, either. I’m not sure what that says about me.
He leads me down the street, his grip firm. He says something in French to the valet waiting by the curb, and even that, his voice, his accent, is unfair.
Smooth, low, the kind that could melt through resolve without even trying.
A black Bentley rolls up. He opens the door for me, and I step inside, dazed, surrounded by the scent of leather and him.
He bends down, his warmth brushing against me as he fastens the seatbelt. His eyes stay on me until the buckle snaps into place.
Then he straightens, closes the door, and moves around to the driver’s side.
He starts the engine and glances at me, quiet but expectant. I show him the address on my phone. He takes it from my hand, studies it, then taps something on the screen. A second later, his phone rings. My number flashes on it. He ends the call without a word and smirks.
I realise what he’s done, and I can’t stop the smile that slips out.
Hopeless, truly.
He drives fast, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. Every so often, his gaze flicks toward me. City lights slide across his face as we move through the streets, and for an instant, he doesn’t feel real at all.
When I recognise the turn ahead, I finally find my voice. “Please stop here,” I say quietly.
He glances at me, a faint frown pulling at his brow. “Why?”
I bite my lip without thinking. His eyes darken immediately, and I let it go, flustered. “My father,” I say softly, the words catching on the way out. “He can’t see me with you. He’d—”
He looks at me for a long moment, that same unshakable focus in his eyes.
“I understand,” he says after a pause, though it doesn’t sound like he really does.
He pulls over to the curb. The car idles.
I spot my father’s vehicle immediately, the black sedan parked in front of the villa, his guards stationed by the entrance, their focus on the doorway rather than the street. Relief flickers through me. From this angle, they can’t see us.
I exhale quietly, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of my pulse.
Turning back to him, I unclip my seatbelt, fingers trembling slightly as I reach for the handle. But before I can move, his hand tightens on my thigh, just enough to keep me still.
“Goodbye, Arlo,” I whisper.
He looks at me for a moment longer, then releases my thigh.
I open the door and step out into the cool Paris air. Just as I’m about to close it, his voice follows.
“This isn’t goodbye, Ophelia,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “You’ll see me again. I promise you that.”
The door shuts softly, sealing his words between us.
I walk toward the villa, forcing my breathing to even out. But even as the night air cools my cheeks, I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my skin.
And somehow, I know he’s right.