Ophelia
It’s Christmas Day, but I feel anything but joy.
It’s been just over twenty days since the accident. Ten of those, I spent in a coma. The rest, a slow, disorienting recovery.
I’m home now, back in Italy, at my father’s estate.
I was discharged five days after waking, and with the academy closed for the winter break, there was little choice but to return here.
My body still aches in places I didn’t know could hurt, bruised and tender, but at least I can walk without assistance.
Octavia hasn’t left my side once. My father, on the other hand, has made himself scarce. I haven’t seen him properly since I arrived. It’s strange how comforting his absence feels. For once, I’m not under the weight of his temper, and I don’t question the reason.
Most days, I stay in bed. The doctor insists I rest, and my body doesn’t argue. I try to read, to watch films, even to knit, anything to distract myself with trivialities, but my thoughts always find their way back to him.
Arlo.
He sent so many flowers to the hospital that they ran out of vases. I eventually asked the nurses to take them home, there was simply no space left.
When I returned to Italy, they kept coming. Every few hours, a member of the staff would knock softly and leave another bouquet on one of the few remaining surfaces. In the end, I had to ask the staff to spread the bouquets throughout the estate.
All white tulips.
My sister keeps saying they mean I’m sorry, grinning every time she reminds me.
Each bouquet arrives with a note.
Just one.
Always a memory of us.
My heart hurts every time I read one.
He said we can come back from this, but I’m not so sure. Now that my memory has returned, I remember everything, the love, the fire, the quiet moments when it felt like the world didn’t exist beyond his touch.
He was the man I thought I’d marry, the man I trusted more than anyone. And yet, he believed the worst of me.
He thought I’d been unfaithful. That I killed his brother to conceal it.
It’s absurd—utterly absurd—and it hurts more than I can say that he could ever think such a thing of me. I truly believed he knew me better than that.
And yet… I know he wasn’t himself either.
He said as much, he wasn’t rational, lost control. I understand that, genuinely I do.
From what I’ve gathered, the subject of his twin was always a delicate one.
He never so much as mentioned his existence.
In some ways, I think Arlo spent most of his life trying to justify his brother’s actions, always finding excuses, always protecting him, because in his mind, illness forgave everything.
But understanding doesn’t take the hurt away. It doesn’t undo what he did, or how he made me feel.
He should have come to me, spoken to me, trusted me, but he didn’t. He chose to hurt me instead.
And even though part of me knows he’s sorry, another part hasn’t stopped bleeding for it.
And then there’s Zara. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in his bed, and the hurt returns all the same. He told me nothing happened, and I do believe him, but the image stays with me, a wound that simply won’t close.
Then there’s the guilt.
It never really leaves, impossible to reason with. Because no matter how many times I remind myself it was self-defence, the truth remains, I killed his brother. I didn’t mean to, but I did.
And guilt like that doesn’t fade.
It persists.
Sometimes I think I don’t even have the right to be angry with him. How can I, when I took someone’s life? Even if it was to save myself.
It’s all tangled inside me.
Guilt, grief, anger, love. None of it makes sense. And I can’t untangle it on my own.
So, while I was still in the hospital, I asked Octavia to find the best therapist she could. Someone I can talk to when I’m ready. Because if I don’t, I think I’ll drown in it.
As of right now, I’m sitting up in bed, knitting absentmindedly while some Christmas film plays in the background. The lights on the tree outside blink softly in gold and white.
The door bursts open, startling me.
Octavia storms in, grinning, her energy almost too bright for the hour.
She’s wearing the most ridiculous knitted jumper with reindeer on it, wide leg trousers, and fuzzy socks.
The socks have Santa’s head wedged in a chimney, his legs kicking in the air, with Merry Christmas Ho Ho Ho stitched across his backside.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re still in bed… in pyjamas!” she exclaims, hands on her hips. “Get up! We’ve got less than an hour to get you ready for dinner.”
“You’re not dressed either,” I point out.
She smirks. “I will be. But all eyes will be on you tonight. You need to shower, do your hair, put on some makeup… look presentable.”
I frown, confused. “And why exactly is that?”
“You’ll see,” she says airily, already rifling through my closet. A moment later, she emerges with a white sequined dress and lays it across the bed. “You’re wearing this.”
“Octavia—”
“No arguments.” She crosses the room, takes my hand, and pulls me gently to my feet. “You can glare at me all you like later.”
I let her steer me toward the bathroom. Before closing the door behind me, she pauses, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Make an effort,” she says, lowering her voice. “We’ve got a very special guest tonight.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
She only grins, wiggling her brows. “You’ll see.”
And with that, she shuts the door before I can ask another word.
I shake my head, turn on the water, and let the sound fill the silence.
I undress and catch my reflection in the mirror. The scar along my abdomen is still pink, the stitches gone but the skin raised and tender. Faint bruises linger across my ribs and hips, fading from violet to gold. There’s still the imprint of the seatbelt across my chest.
I turn my back on my reflection and step into the shower. The water is hot, and I let it run over me until my skin begins to tingle.
I wash my hair and scrub the rest of my body, mindful of the time.
When I’m done, I turn off the tap, wrap myself in a towel, and step out.
In my room, I blow dry my hair and brush through it until it falls smooth and straight.
The white Chanel dress Octavia chose lies across the bed. I run my fingers over the fabric and sigh before turning to the wardrobe.
Inside, I let the towel fall and slip into a white lace bra and matching panties. I dress slowly, careful with every movement, then pull the dress over my head. The fabric settles against my skin as though it was made for me.
Back at the vanity, I plug in the curler and start on my hair, I’m in the mood for a few soft waves. It doesn’t take long.
When I’m done, I smooth a little moisturiser over my face before reaching for my makeup, a light foundation, a touch of blush, mascara, and a hint of gloss.
I step into the closet again and find a pair of white, glittering stilettos. When I slip them on, I finally look at myself in the mirror, pleased with what I see.
Then I glance at the clock on my nightstand, and curse under my breath. I’m late.
I take a breath and make my way downstairs. The hum of conversation carries up the staircase, laughter, the clink of glasses, soft music in the background.
As I reach the bottom step, my mother’s voice drifts through the house.
“Ophelia,” she calls, her voice warm.
Lucinda Bellanti.
She’s radiant, as always, delicate features, perfectly styled blonde hair, and an emerald green dress that fits her flawlessly.
Her eyes, however, have never lost their sadness.
My father’s shadow has always followed her, though she’s learned to carry it with grace.
“Merry Christmas, my little one,” she says, smiling as she pulls me into her arms. Her perfume, jasmine and rose, is achingly familiar, and somehow comforting.
“Merry Christmas, mamma,” I whisper, hugging her back.
I know she wanted to visit me in the hospital, but father wouldn’t allow it. He even took her phone so she couldn’t call. It was cruel, but not surprising, that’s just him.
Later, though, something must have changed. He gave the phone back, and the night Arlo left the hospital, she rang me. We talked for hours, cried even longer, and for the first time in years, it felt like I had her back.
Now she’s crying again, quietly, against my shoulder.
“Stop,” I say softly, laughing a little. “You’ll make me cry, and we’ll both ruin our makeup.”
She pulls back, dabbing at her eyes before shaking her head. “You’re so beautiful. I can’t help it.”
I smile faintly, and she takes my hand. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”
We walk together down the long marble corridor toward the dining room. The closer we get, the louder the voices become.
My chest tightens. I don’t know who’s here tonight, but I just pray it isn’t that dreadful man my father arranged for me to marry.
He promised I’d be allowed to finish my studies at St. Monarche? before any of that, and I intend to hold him to it.
I still have months left before graduation, and I won’t let him take that from me.
As we approach the open doorway, my heartbeat quickens.
And then I step inside.
All conversation stops.
The room is filled with familiar faces, family, relatives, a few of my father’s associates, but my eyes go straight to him.
Arlo.
Those same midnight blue eyes lock onto mine, and the rest of the room disappears. He looks devastating, impossibly collected in a tailored black suit, but there’s something in his gaze that burns. It’s hunger, grief, longing, all tangled together.
I force myself to breathe, to smile, to be civilised.
“Merry Christmas, everyone,” I say softly, my tone even, my mask firmly in place.
My gaze moves around the room. Octavia stands near the fireplace, smirking as if she knows something I don’t. My mother is beside me, still dabbing at her eyes.
Beside Arlo stands a man who could only be his father, they look so alike it throws me for a moment.
There are others too, some of my father’s business associates, cousins, a few distant uncles. But I can’t focus on any of them.
Because I still don’t understand what Arlo is doing here. In my father’s estate. On Christmas night.
Luigi Bellanti steps forward, his arms open in greeting. “Ophelia,” he says, smiling widely. “Merry Christmas, dear.”
He leans in for a hug, but I take a small step back.
His expression darkens, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that same controlled smile.
I study him carefully, suspicion stirring somewhere deep in me. This isn’t him. He’s too calm, too accommodating.
Something’s off.
He should be scowling at me for being late, quietly threatening me with something no one else would hear.
He glances around the room, his gaze landing on Arlo before coming back to me.
“Ophelia,” he says smoothly, raising a champagne flute a servant has just placed in his hand, “we have very special guests tonight. Your fiancé and his father are joining us for Christmas. The first of many to come.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts his glass in a small toast before taking a sip.
My pulse stutters.
Fiancé.
The word doesn’t sound real. For a second, I think I must have misheard him. But everyone’s eyes turn to Arlo, and the room seems to tilt slightly on its axis.
I can’t make sense of it. Even when Arlo and I were together, I always knew my father would never permit it. I’d lived in dread of the day he discovered us.
He already had an arrangement—an alliance that suited his interests. For Arlo to replace that, something must have happened. Something drastic. Either he offered my father a deal he couldn’t refuse, or he found leverage he couldn’t ignore.
Arlo steps forward. He stops in front of me, his voice carrying easily through the quiet.
“Tonight isn’t only a Christmas celebration,” he says. “It’s also our engagement party.”
I can’t breathe.
He reaches into his jacket and draws out a small velvet box.
My heart falters.
When he opens it, the diamond catches the light, a clear, cold brilliance with a flicker of fire beneath. The cut is flawless and elegant, set in a band of white gold so fine it almost disappears against it.
I have so many questions, but none make it past my lips.
He takes a slow step closer. “May I?”
His voice is low, almost reverent. I can’t seem to move, yet my hand extends on instinct. Our eyes lock, and time seems to hold.
Without breaking our gaze, he takes the ring from its box and slides it onto my finger.
It fits perfectly.
Then he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to it before letting go and taking a step closer, lowering himself slightly.
When he leans in, his breath is warm against my ear.
“You’ll have your proper proposal soon,” he murmurs. “Something worthy of you. But I needed this first, to claim what’s already mine. So no man, not even your father, dares stand in my way.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I should step back, say something, anything, but I can’t. His presence seems to fill the air itself.
I’m not na?ve enough to oppose the engagement, I’ve always known this was my fate. My father would see me married for advantage.
And however hurt I am by Arlo, he’s still the only man I could ever bring myself to marry.
Before I can speak, the room bursts into applause, cheers, laughter, the clinking of glasses. My mother hurries forward, tears streaming as she throws her arms around me.
“Oh, my darling,” my mother says breathlessly, laughing and crying all at once. “I’m so happy for you.”
Octavia’s beside her, grinning, dabbing at her eyes.
I told them about Arlo and me, how we met, how it started, but I left out everything that came after.
The party. The betrayal. All of it. Because the moment they knew what he’d done, they’d never forgive him.
And perhaps he deserves a bit of my sister’s anger, but I don’t want them involved.
So, to them, this is the happiest day of my life, the day I officially escaped that dreadful arrangement my father made months ago and became engaged to the man I love.
And in a way, they’re not wrong. I am grateful, truly. But that doesn’t mean it won’t take time for Arlo and me to mend what was broken.
Across the room, Mr. Vass lifts his glass, satisfaction clear in his expression. He looks proud, pleased for his son.
My father, though, only smiles. It’s brittle and restrained. His jaw tightens just enough for me to see it.
I stand there, frozen.
Arlo takes a step back, his eyes never leaving mine.
I manage a small, forced smile in return, and see his jaw tighten.
None of this feels real.
Happiness and unease pull at me in equal measure.
Part of me is afraid that if I let myself feel it, it will all disappear.
And another part knows, with certainty, that this is exactly how it was always meant to be.