Ophelia
We’re finally back at St. Monarché Institute.
I linger in my room, unpacking slowly, letting the quiet settle.
After Christmas, the New Year came too quickly, and the weeks that followed passed in a blur of recovery and restless thoughts.
I haven’t seen Arlo since Christmas Day. But that doesn’t mean he’s been absent. The flowers kept coming, lavish arrangements, delivered every few hours.
During the break, I also began therapy. My sessions with Dr. Evelyn, a trauma specialist, have been the one thing keeping my mind from collapsing in on itself.
She’s brilliant, warm, and perceptive. She insists I call her outside of sessions whenever the nightmares return, and I have, more than once.
Sometimes I still wake drenched in sweat, hands shaking, the memory of blood clinging to me like it’s real again.
Dr. Evelyn says guilt doesn’t always vanish, it simply softens with understanding. That I didn’t kill him out of cruelty, I survived him. That self-defence isn’t a crime, even if my mind refuses to see it that way.
She also told me that healing isn’t about forgetting, it’s about making peace with the truth that it happened and that I’m still here.
She’s also helped me start to untangle the hurt Arlo left behind, the betrayal, the disbelief, the cruelty that still lingers.
Lately, the words he said that night.
“We can come back from this.”
Don’t sound impossible anymore. For the first time, I almost believe them.
I shake off the thoughts of Arlo as a rush of happiness rises in my chest. I’m finally back, and I’ll finally get to see Bellamy. I’ve missed him more than I can put into words.
He wasn’t transferred to Italy during the break, the doctor hadn’t cleared me to ride after the surgery. One of the stable hands who lives on the island has been looking after him in my place.
I kneel beside my suitcase, sorting through what’s left to unpack, when a wave of dizziness hits.
I frown and glance around until I spot my glucose kit buried somewhere in the chaos of my bag. I unzip the case, and check my levels. The numbers flash up, low. That would explain the light headedness.
Just as I start toward the kitchen, where I know the glucose tablets are, the door bursts open, so hard the sound makes me jump. The lock gives way with a crack.
I gasp, my heart lurching into my throat.
And then I see him.
“Arlo,” I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared me half to death! What on earth do you think you’re doing? You’ve broken my door… again.”
He looks as though he’s sprinted the entire way here, his chest heaving, his eyes fierce and searching. When they finally find mine, some of that wild intensity softens into relief.
“You’re low,” he says simply.
My brows knit. “I know that. But how do you know that?”
He shrugs, not remotely apologetic. “I connected your glucose meter to my phone. I get alerts when your levels drop.”
“You what?” I stare at him. “Why would you do that?”
He takes a slow step closer, his voice deep. “Because I’ll always take care of you. And I need to know when you don’t feel well.”
I glance toward the broken door, and his eyes follow mine. His mouth twitches. “I’ll have it fixed before tonight,” he promises. “You have my word.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“I know,” he says, finally letting a faint smirk appear. “But you still love me.”
My pulse stutters.
I wish he hadn’t said that. Because he’s right.
I do love him, always have. But love doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t undo the hurt.
Before I can think of a response, he’s suddenly closer, holding something out to me. A small chocolate bar.
“Eat,” the word rough in his throat.
I blink, but take it from his hand. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t move as I unwrap it, his eyes tracking every motion. Only when I’ve eaten half does he exhale, tension easing from his shoulders.
His gaze drops, to my hand.
To my bare hand.
His expression hardens instantly, the warmth vanishing from his face.
“Where’s your ring?” he asks, his voice low and edged with danger.
I still, my breath catching. “In my jewellery box.”
“In your jewellery box,” he repeats slowly, taking a step closer. “And why, pray tell, would it be there instead of on your finger, Ophelia?”
My mouth parts, but no sound escapes. His stare holds me captive.
I took it off earlier today, perhaps just to provoke him, knowing he’d notice eventually. But the look in his eyes now… it sends a shiver down my spine, my thighs instinctively pressing together. This man will be the end of me.
His jaw tightens, and before I can move, he closes the distance between us, his hand finding my throat.
He leans in, his breath grazing my ear.
“Don’t do that again,” he murmurs. “Don’t let me see you without my ring on your finger, Ophelia. Or you’ll leave me no choice but to forget the space you’re so adamant about… and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
Heat pools low in my stomach as my breath stutters.
When he finally releases me, I turn away, crossing to my room on unsteady legs. At the vanity, I open the drawer and lift the lid of my jewellery box. The ring gleams up at me. I slide it back onto my finger.
He watches silently from the doorway, his gaze dark, satisfied, possessive.
“That ring stays where it belongs,” he says. “Because you’re mine, Ophelia. Like it or not.”
“Happy now?” I ask, folding my arms.
A faint, knowing smile curves his mouth. “Not quite,” he drawls. “I’d be happier if you wore my last name too. I could call someone and have us married within twenty minutes.”
I gape at him. “You’re insane.”
He smirks, his eyes burning. “For you, always. But I’m deadly serious.”
“We’re not getting married,” I tell him firmly, lifting my hand between us. “See? The ring’s back. I’m not taking it off again. Now you can leave.”
For a moment, his gaze lingers on me. Then his voice softens, gentle, but laced with warning. “Remember, don’t ever take it off again,” he says. “Not unless you’re ready to start a war.”
He turns toward the door, his hand already on the handle. But before leaving, he glances back over his shoulder.
“No horse riding for the next few days,” he says evenly. “Your doctor hasn’t cleared you yet.”
I blink, caught off guard. “How do you—” I stop myself.
Of course he knows. He probably hacked into their system.
He gives me one last look before leaving, the soft click of the door echoing through the quiet room.
I stay where I am, staring at the space he’s just left, my heart heavy, my throat tight.
Everything inside me feels at odds.
I wanted him to go, yet I wish he hadn’t.
I want what we had back, but the hurt’s still there, and I’m too afraid to reach for it.