Pure

Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

DAMIEN

There’s a yellow hatchback parked outside when I arrive home from school. Gregorie, Dad’s private secretary, waves from the driver’s seat, and I tug my polo neck higher.

I park in the garage and taking a few extra moments to compose myself before I walk through the house and answer the door.

“Hey.” I frown. “Did you need something for Dad?”

Gregorie pushes in a step, angling his head as he peers along the main hallway. “Is Alexander here?”

“I don’t know. I just got home.” I glance over my shoulder like he could be standing in the lobby, then face him again. “Why would he be here? He told me he was going to Vietnam.”

“His pilot called me. He never turned up for the flight.”

I shrug, stepping aside so he can enter. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, making Gregorie seem too close, every detail of his face in high definition.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say, walking through to the kitchen and tossing my keys into the bowl. “He’s been getting chummy with Vincent Impaglia. Have you asked him?”

The secretary shifts his feet, his nerves feeding into mine. “Can I check his office?”

“Sure.”

I wave at the hallway and Gregorie disappears, footsteps loud on the polished floorboards. His polite knock echoes along the passage.

I’m leaning against the counter, scrolling my phone, when he reappears, face creased with worry. “Have you got any messages from him?”

My snort is derisive. “Dad doesn’t contact me unless he’s expecting something.” I hand him my phone. “You can check.”

He does, visiting my messages, my emails, my notification history before returning it. “Let me know if you hear from him. There’s a stack of business contacts who’ve been trying to get in contact. He’s missing opportunities.”

“Will do.”

Even after his car engine fades along the driveway, my heart’s pumping. I force my glance away from the basement door and jog upstairs, immediately stepping onto the balcony.

The encounter was expected, but it still leaves me unsettled. Gregorie has always been an efficient handler behind the scenes. He’ll grow more tenacious the longer my father’s absent.

The chances of him lying undisturbed for a week suddenly feel infinitesimal.

I walk into my bathroom, checking my bruises in the mirror. My head wound still isn’t noticeable, just a shadow near my temple, but my neck…?

The handprints are clear. The darker shadows where Dad’s fingertips sunk into my skin, the rough red marks across my windpipe. Another piece of evidence that needs time.

Shaking myself, I shower, then lie on my bed, thoughts immediately landing on Ophelia. All day, my mind’s been touching on her and flinching away like she’s a sore tooth.

I check her social media on my phone and can’t find her profiles. She’s blocked me.

My thumb hovers over the camera feed of her room, but I don’t click it. Just like I don’t click into the tracking device I had installed.

Those instincts are why she broke it off with me. I delete both apps, but the strange pressure in my chest—the sensation that lodged there when she said we were done—just grows.

If these are the emotions everyone raves about, I’d welcome back the friction.

A few calls come through on my father’s line during the evening, and I let them ring out. He’s never allowed me to answer his private line.

At twilight, I wander through the native bush behind the house, feet sinking into the mossy ground, jeans leg growing damp from the dewy silver ferns. I’m half-tempted to set up camp out here, sleep among the nocturnal rustling, but the play is ‘appear normal.’

I reluctantly head back inside.

Ophelia’s not in class on Tuesday. My eyes jerk to the door every time it opens, scowling when it’s a different student.

When I reach my car after final bell, Cam’s waiting beside it.

My chest tightens. “Have you seen Ophelia?”

“No.” He tugs at his collar. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.” He passes me his phone. “She sent me this message, saying if I ever follow her again, she’ll report me for stalking.”

I scan the text, and hand it back to him.

“Like, you pay me well, but I can’t afford to lose this scholarship. It’s my entire future.”

“You’re good.” I manage a wan smile. “Permission to stand down.”

When I arrive home, our main cleaner waits in the lobby, her face creased with worry lines.

“Gregorie came and questioned me while you were in school.” She tugs at her frayed cuffs. “He insisted on looking all over the house, even when I said he needed permission. Even looking at the camera feeds.”

My stomach tightens, but the basement has no cameras, and he needs a password for previous recordings.

“Okay.” I shrug, and her posture softens. “And did he find him?”

“No. He’s not here.” Her eyes glance across my neck, and I tug my collar higher. Her expression grows concerned. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Don’t worry.” I pat her shoulder. “You did the right thing, and I’ll tell my father that if he complains.”

Her taut expression relaxes.

On Wednesday, my car purrs into its usual space and I scan the grounds for Ophelia’s slight figure, the white hair that always catches the light.

Nothing.

First bell rings and I move through the hallways with my usual confidence, but my eyes are searching, hunting. At lunchtime, I check the library. Empty. Then the disused bike sheds.

My memory supplies an image of her on her knees. I blink and there’s no one there.

Just before fifth period, I see her walking across the quad, between classes, wearing her taped glasses. A boy’s at her side, talking animatedly, and she laughs, placing a light hand on his forearm.

During economics, I pour over the online registry, finally landing on his image. Basil Crawford. Captain of the swim team.

His shoulders are broad enough to block doorways, and he has a smile that must get him laid on the regular.

What the fuck is Ophelia doing on his radar?

I have no clue, but at Thursday lunchtime, she’s sitting at the swim team table. I watch them covertly, using my phone as a video and a shield, my lunch forgotten on the table in front of me.

Basil’s talking, gesturing with his hands like he’s telling a story. And Ophelia…?

Ophelia is listening.

Not just the polite, minimal engagement she gives to teachers. She’s participating in the conversation. Her mouth moves, words I can’t hear from this distance. Basil throws his head back and laughs, genuine and loud, and something in my chest cracks.

She’s smiling. A small smile, cautious and hesitant, but real.

My hands are shaking. I drop my lunch in the bin and head for the bathroom, needing privacy before my composure slips even more.

On the way, my gaze lands on Chelsea.

For once she’s not looking at her phone or examining her manicure or holding court. Her eyes narrow on Ophelia with the focus a cat gives a spring fledgling. When Basil glances at her table, she catches his eye and nods.

Just once. Barely noticeable.

I should have seen it coming. Cam reported a handful of intercepted pranks over the past few weeks, frustrating Chelsea and her friends at every turn. Now she’s orchestrating something, using Basil as her instrument. God knows what he owes her.

She’s vicious but predictable and Ophelia is experienced enough to avoid her bully’s schemes by herself.

In the bathroom mirror, my reflection looks calm. Composed. The mask is still in place, even if it feels like it’s melting from the inside.

At least Ophelia’s here today.

She’ll be in music, unable to ignore me.

But Van der Valk looks up when I enter the room, his expression carefully neutral. “Mr Kade. Please take a seat in the back.”

His request makes me frown before I process what I’m seeing.

Front row, centre, Ophelia sits with her back straight and her hands folded on the desk. The seat next to her is filled with Van der Valk’s belongings, his battered leather briefcase on the chair, his jacket draped over the back. The desk holds stacks of sheet music and a coffee mug.

She doesn’t turn around, even when I hesitate right beside her. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all.

The lesson drones on around me, but all I have eyes for are the white strands of hair falling down her back. I will her to turn around, give me a sign. A glance. She never does.

After the bell, she’s gone before I reach her desk, disappearing like smoke.

Friday morning’s lesson is the same, and when the bell rings for lunchtime, I position myself on a bench where I can see Ophelia clearly.

Basil appears a few minutes later, but this time he’s come prepared.

He’s carrying roses, a dozen of them. Red and long-stemmed and cliché.

Exactly the kind of romantic gesture that works magic on vulnerable girls.

The noise drops several decibels as people notice. Basil makes a show of it, letting everyone watch as he approaches Ophelia’s bench. She looks up, sees the roses, and her face does something complicated. Surprise, maybe. Or fear.

The distance between us feels like miles instead of metres.

Basil gets down on one knee. The area is almost silent now, everyone watching the public spectacle. Even the tuck shop staff have stopped working, craning their necks through the serving window.

I watch Chelsea watch Ophelia, her expression eager and hungry.

Basil is talking, his voice carrying across the cafeteria in fragments. “…would make me the happiest… senior dance… say yes…”

Ophelia reaches for the roses. Takes them. Nods.

The watching crowd erupts in applause.

Basil stands and pulls Ophelia into a hug that she doesn’t return, her body stiff and uncomfortable in his arms. Over his shoulder, I see her face. My vision blurs at the edges, everything around going soft and indistinct.

The emptiness in my chest doesn’t exist anymore. It’s full of something dark and howling that demands satisfaction.

I follow her. Between fourth and fifth period changeover, she walks on the far side of the quad, near the empty prefab classrooms no one’s used since Covid. She doesn’t hear me until I’m right behind her.

“Ophelia.”

She spins, her eyes wide behind the dark lenses. For a moment, we just look at each other. Then she turns to walk away.

I grab her wrist and pull her towards the unused classroom. She resists, planting her feet, but the outcome isn’t ever in doubt. I drag her inside and kick the door shut behind us.

The room is dark except for the light filtering through the dusty blinds. Desks are stacked in corners, chairs missing legs piled against walls.

“We need to talk.” An echo of her on Monday morning, and even I can hear how my voice has changed. The charm is gone. The careful modulation. It emerges flat and cold and absolutely certain of what I want.

Ophelia backs away until she hits a desk. “Let me go.”

“You’re going to the dance with Basil.” It’s not a question.

She braces a hand on her hip. “What do you care? You never asked me.” Her chin juts forward. “It’s my senior ball too, and I want to go.”

“Fine.” Stepping closer, breathing in her floral bodywash and the sweet scent of her apprehension. “I’ll take you.”

“No.”

My fingers run through her hair, so soft. “No, what?”

“No. Basil asked me first.” Her stance changes, palms flat against my chest, pushing until the cords of her neck strain. “If I’m going, it’s only fair I accept his offer.”

“The fuck you are. You’re coming with me, or—”

“Or what?” Ophelia glares straight up at me. “Your leverage won’t work on me any longer.”

She steps sideways, but I match her, pressing another inch closer, my body bare millimetres from her now, our body heat mingling. “You’re not going to the dance with Basil.”

“I will if I want to and it’s none of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business.” The words come out wrong, too honest, too raw. I’m supposed to be better at this. But the jealousy is like static in my head, interfering with my usual calculation. “You can’t go with him.”

“I can do whatever I want.” Her voice shakes, but there’s steel underneath. “You don’t own me, Damien.”

The way she says my name, spitting it out like poison, makes my need howl louder.

“Chelsea is setting you up,” I say, forcing myself to focus.

“And you care about that because…?” Her laugh is sharp and humourless. “Don’t pretend now you’re concerned about my wellbeing.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“Then you’re doing a shit job of it. Leave me alone.”

The words are a physical blow, and my jaw sets. We stare at each other in the dusty classroom, and I see it all playing out.

Her at the dance in Basil’s arms, smiling that cautious smile, letting him touch her, kiss her, claim parts of her that are supposed to be mine. The images loop through my head, each one stoking my jealousy higher.

And if this is how she felt about Chelsea, it’s no wonder she couldn’t stand it. The sensation turns the world abrasive.

“No,” I say simply, and reach for her.