Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
OPHELIA
Damien barely speaks during fourth period music class, and I’m grateful for his silence. The intimacy of last night, sitting on his lap, memorising the contours of his face, keeps reappearing in my thoughts no matter how hard I shove it away.
On the surface, it doesn’t seem like the type of interaction that should stay with me so emphatically, not after what we’ve already done. But it’s the first time I’ve initiated anything between us.
Even if it seems less impactful on the surface, the experience has worked far deeper under my skin.
We’re leaving the room when Damien pulls me aside. “Send me a photo.” His voice is dark and husky. “Something I’ll like.”
I tap my finger on my lips like I’m thinking and he snags my hand away.
“No. Don’t suggest puppies or whatever equally ridiculous thing you’re about to say.” He bends until our faces are level. “You know exactly what I mean. Do it.”
Warnings from our sexual health class ring loudly in my ear. Photos leaked online. Revenge porn. Incel group chats. “Why don’t you send me one first?”
He hums under his breath, his fingers around my wrist like a warm handcuff. Then he gives a squeeze and releases me. “Okay.”
A second later he’s gone.
I head for the library, and my shoulders relax the moment its quiet ambience embraces me.
It’s a study period and while any sane student would immediately head home, I prefer working here, with the reference tomes all around and Regency High’s superior wifi.
My laptop screen is full of notes by the time my phone buzzes.
Blood rushes to my cheeks as Damien’s stiff cock fills the screen, engorged veins twining along his length.
A twinge hits my abdomen; a day late to dismiss as a period cramp. I enlarge the image, searching for something identifiable, but it’s not like he included his face in the shot.
There’s a blur of silver on the side of the image, where his fingers grip the shaft, bending it forward so it fills the entire screen. It might be one of the rings I’ve felt on his fingers, but plenty of boys wear heavy rings.
The brief hope I had of gaining useful evidence, something I could threaten to send Chelsea if he turns on me, disappears in a flash.
DAMIEN
Your turn
The bathroom entrance is beside the crammed history shelves, and I sneak inside, flicking the lock on the door.
I’ve never done this before. My heart’s beating out of my chest.
I unbutton my blouse with shaking fingers, then unhook my bra, blaming my tight nipples on the cool air, even as my cheeks warm to bright pink.
Footsteps sound right outside the door and my muscles lock. Even when they move past, I can’t relax. Especially when my naked chest fills the screen.
Once I’ve framed the shot so my face is hidden, I take a burst of images, then quickly do up my blouse.
Decent again, I enlarge the resulting pictures. It’s odd seeing myself like this, sensual. My eyes keep bouncing away. I choose the best one and add it to my reply text. My thumb won’t press send.
Damien covered his identity, but I don’t have the same luxury, even with my face obscured. If he shows anyone in school, they’ll instantly know it’s me.
You know he won’t share it. Not unless he’s planning to kill them after.
I suppress a laugh. It’s true.
His possessiveness should mean he won’t show anyone. But my breath still catches when I finally press send.
I briefly close my eyes, then escape the bathroom and scurry back to my laptop, face in danger of bursting into flames.
My muscles remain tense for the rest of the hour, eyes stinging when I pack away my laptop. The bus ride home takes forever, each jolt mimicking the uncomfortable lurch in my stomach.
My phone remains stubbornly silent.
Arriving home, I trudge upstairs to my room, and strip off my blouse and kilt. There’s a clean t-shirt in my hand when an impulse draws me towards the mirror. I twist my torso from side to side, examining my reflection.
I’m not model or porn star perfect, but I don’t look too bad. “And why do you care if he doesn’t like your photo? Idiot.”
I drag the shirt over my head, and grab my dirty blouse, heading downstairs.
I’ve just reached the landing when the front doorbell rings, a startling noise in the still house.
I pause near the bathroom—mostly it’s charities, Witnesses, or Mormons who come to our door—but I throw my top into the hamper and jog for the front door, opening it on the chain.
A large man stands there, a huge gut overflowing his belt, eyes like raisins baked into dough.
“Hello?”
He stares at me with a slight frown, then his gaze crawls up and down my body until I scoot farther behind the door.
“Bryan here?”
“No, sorry. He’s out at work.” I swing the door and he stops it with one meaty hand, pushing it until the chain pulls taut.
“Just a second, love.” He fishes in his back pocket, pulling out a crumpled envelope and smoothing it flat against his thigh. “Give him this, would you?”
“Sure.” I pull at the end, but the man holds tight. After a tussle he lets it go, his wet lips spreading into a wide grin.
“Thank y—”
I slam the door, flicking the dead bolt and racing into the kitchen, cowering in the darkness until his footsteps head away. Only then do I turn on the light, turning the envelope over.
There’s nothing written either side, and I leave it on the end of the counter, right beside a stack of invoices, all red-stamped.
A quick glance through their contents shows they’re all overdue, the amounts with delinquent fees totalling in the thousands. I have the uncomfortable feeling Bryan left them out on purpose.
Was the guy tonight some kind of loan shark? The next time he comes back, will he bring a weapon far more threatening than whatever’s in the envelope?
I don’t know, but the entire incident leaves me unsettled.
For the past week or two, I’ve ignored Bryan’s entreaties to call my mother, but my continued refusal when he might be in danger suddenly seems ungrateful in the extreme.
I bring up Mum’s profile, dialling her number. It’s been well over a year since I last saw her, outside of her filtered updates on social media. Almost as long since we talked.
My pulse beats loud in my ears. The phone clicks. “Ophelia?”
My mother’s voice is bright enough to hear her smile, and I collapse into a dining chair hard enough my teeth snap together.
Stinging tears fill my eyes, my voice barely a whisper. “Mum?”
“Oh my god. I was wondering when you’d finally break down and call. You are the most stubborn child ever, I swear.”
“Break down—Mum! You left me with a stranger and waltzed overseas.”
“A stranger,” she scoffs. “How is Brandon, anyway?”
“His name’s Bryan.” I bite my lip, inhale through my nose. “We’re not doing well, Mum. Money’s really tight, and I had to replace my glasses unexpectedly, I was…” My voice breaks and I swallow, then try again. “I wondered if you could send some extra money this week?”
“Money.” The brightness in her voice is gone. “That’s the reason you’re calling? Not because you miss me.”
“Of course I miss you. I think about you every day. It’s just…” I close my eyes, too many thoughts crowding my head. “You left. I thought you didn’t want to hear from me any longer.”
Her breathing fades, like she’s holding the phone farther away. “If you need money, ask Bryan. God knows I send him enough each month, and with your expensive school…”
Prepaid from a trust and Regency High doesn’t allow refunds. It’s the first thing we tried when my support payments dipped.
“I appreciate all you do for me, Mum. I really do. It’s just… things are so expensive now… with inflation, and—”
“Is Bryan there?” Her tone sharpens.
“No, Mum. He’s working overtime tonight.”
“Right. So, he just wrote out what he wanted you to say, did he? Because it may’ve been a while since I was a teenage girl, but I know that worrying about inflation wasn’t part of it.”
“It’s all over the news—”
“You know, it’s bad here, too.” Like flicking a switch, all the animation comes back into her voice.
“I’m based in New York now, and it’s a hell of a lot more expensive here than in Christchurch.
I found the cutest little apartment above a decommissioned church.
It’s amazing. There are leadlight windows and—oh! Have I told you about Max?”
I’d forgotten her torrential outpour of words. Forgotten how much fun and excitement she brings to everything and everyone until they bore her, when all her enthusiasm abruptly ceases.
“It’s sounds great. I’m really glad things are going well for you, but I just need—”
“Darling, you’re eighteen now. If you really need money, don’t you think it’s time you found your own job?
Honestly, the amount I’ve spent when you won’t even call me like a normal daughter.
Max says, he’s my new boyfriend”—she giggles—“although he’s in his sixties, so boy is stretching it.
He works in finance, you know, and he says if you want to get on the property ladder, then you should start at your age. Don’t leave it too late.”
“I won’t, but—”
“I don’t know why it’s suddenly my fault Bryan can’t afford his mortgage payments.”
The bouncing from one tangent to another is exhausting. I can barely track what she’s trying to tell me.
“If you won’t send money, can I come and live with you?”
The silence that follows is so complete I think the line disconnects. Finally, “Stay with me?” She laughs again, but it’s different now. Sharp. “Phee, honey, that’s not really practical. It’s a one-bedroom, and Max is here most nights, and I’m travelling constantly—”
“Please.” I hate how small my voice sounds. “I’m really struggling, Mum.”
“Stop it.” A long sigh. “You’ve always been like this, you know. Dramatic. Bryan is well paid for taking care of you, and if there are issues, see your therapist more often. I might miss a month or two here and there, but you’re not neglected.”
“I wasn’t saying—”
“I have to go.” Her voice softens the way it always does when she’s exiting a conversation she doesn’t want to have. “Love you, sweetie. Bye!”
The line goes dead.
I drop into a dining chair, staring blankly at the floor. Nothing but emptiness inside.
When I trust my voice will come out smooth, I dictate a quick text message: a man knocked on the door and left you an envelope. It’s on the bench.
After a moment’s pause, I add: I’ve called Mum. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to help.
I’m about to press send, when I think of Damien’s questions yesterday. He’d promised cash if I answered him, then didn’t mention it again.
I delete the last line and press send. I’ll remind Damien tomorrow.
A thousand won’t be enough, but anything helps.