1. Chapter One
Chapter One
Ophelia
P ainting used to be everything. Now, it’s just a habit. A necessity. A lifeless motion of brush to canvas that means nothing.
I paint because I have to. Because I need to make a living somehow. Because moving back in with my father is not an option.
He’s an asshole.
I stare at the canvas in front of me—technically perfect, completely meaningless. It should be beautiful, but it isn’t.
It wasn’t always like this.
I glance toward the paintings stacked in the corner, the ones from when I was sixteen. They’re nothing like what I paint now. They’re alive. The colors clash and meld, raw and unfiltered, as if something inside of me had been spilling out onto the canvas.
They make me feel.
They make others feel.
I never thought I would lose that. But I did. Slowly, bit by bit, it slipped away. The world didn’t change all at once—it tipped, tilted, unraveled one piece at a time.
At first, it was small. A dullness in my chest where excitement used to be. A hesitation where inspiration should have struck. I could still paint. I could still feel. Just… less.
Less turned into nothing at all.
I’m twenty-six now. And what little expression I had is gone. Completely.
I can’t even fucking see color anymore. Everything is just shades of gray.
I drop my brush onto the table beside me and sit on my bed, rubbing my hands over my face. The apartment is small, but it’s mine. It’s open space, nothing excessive, just a bed against the wall, a desk covered in paint-stained rags, and canvases leaning near the window.
It’s quiet. Safe. Controlled.
And yet, right now, I just want to throw myself on the floor and scream.
The misery, the frustration, the absolute agony of being unable to get any of it out—it’s crushing me.
Painting was my escape. My release. The way I used to make sense of things.
Now, it’s nothing.
And crying? That won’t fix anything either.
I could talk to someone. Hang out with friends. Try to be normal.
But I don’t like that.
Instead, I get to be the sister of Melanie Arden, the princess of the entertainment industry. The media’s golden girl. The one who gets everything, the one the world adores. The one who is perfect.
Melanie, who is getting married to Dominic fucking Forsythe, award-winning actor, tabloid darling, every media outlet’s obsession.
Melanie, who plays the role of a golden girl so flawlessly that people believe it.
And me? I’m just her frumpy older sister.
Not by much. Just four months.
My father had an affair. My mother had me. My stepmother had Melanie.
Two years later, she had Arabella.
Melanie and I? We aren’t close. We never were. But Bella? She’s my person. Two peas in a pod. She just moved out, and she’s out there doing something good, being a social worker, changing lives.
And Melanie?
Melanie was mediocre at best. She started acting when she was ten, and it was obvious from the start. No emotions. No depth. No connection to anything. She could memorize lines, but there was nothing behind them.
Until she was sixteen.
That’s when it changed. That’s when she suddenly found her way—when she gained emotional intelligence, empathy, depth.
Right around the time I started losing mine.
If karma exists, I got the shit end of the stick.
And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.
But something about it bothers me.
Still, it’s impossible. She couldn’t have taken my emotions, my ability to express them. That’s not how the world works.
My phone rings, startling me.
No one ever really calls me. Not like I’d answer anyway. I don’t have a whole lot to talk about.
I push aside a half-dried canvas and feel something cold beneath my fingertips.
"Found it," I exclaim, lifting my phone into the air.
I glance at the screen and my stomach twists.
Cassius Arden.
I groan, thumb hovering over the decline button. I don’t want to answer. But ignoring him never makes anything better.
I exhale sharply and swipe to accept.
"Hello, Father," I say, voice even. Detached.
"Ophelia," he replies, his voice smooth, impassive.
I don’t say anything else.
There’s no point. I know how this goes. It doesn’t matter what I say—he’ll talk over it, dismiss it, ignore it entirely.
So I wait.
"You need to call your sister," he says. "She needs you and Arabella to help her. We can’t trust anyone else."
Of course. We . Not ‘Melanie needs you.’ Not ‘This is important to your sister.’ We .
Because none of this has never been about Melanie. It’s about him.
I exhale slowly. Controlled.
"Bella would love to assist," I say, pushing it onto someone who actually cares.
"Arabella and you, Ophelia," he corrects, his tone sharpening.
Here we go. Full names. No shortening. No warmth. Cassius Arden speaks like every word is a signed contract, like everything is already decided before I have a chance to react.
I press the phone tighter to my ear, already regretting answering.
“Melanie built something of herself. A career, a future, a life. You, on the other hand? Wasting away in that apartment, painting things no one cares about. She knows how to uphold this family’s name. I wish I could say the same about you."
The words hit like cold steel. Blunt. Precise. Cutting.
I swallow, but I don’t react, don’t bite, don’t snap back. I just stare at my own reflection in the window.
"I don’t expect you to contribute much, but at the very least, you will be there. Looking presentable. Acting appropriately."
"So that’s why you called," I mutter. "To make sure I show up and behave?"
"This wedding is not about you, Ophelia," he says, unimpressed. "Try not to make it difficult."
I clench my jaw. I’m well aware that nothing has been about me, nothing that involves him, anyway.
"You are an Arden. That means something. It is about time you started acting like it." The final blow comes effortlessly, like it means nothing."Melanie is everything this family needs. You are just a reminder of past mistakes."
The line clicks dead.
No goodbye. No room for response.
Just silence.
I lower the phone, staring at the screen, his name still glowing, his words pressing into my skull like an imprint I can’t erase.
I don’t throw it. I don’t scream. I don’t cry.
But my hand is shaking.
I squeeze the phone tighter, pressing it into my palm until the edges bite into my skin, sharp and unyielding. Something solid to anchor myself to.
A mistake. That’s all I am to him. A lingering reminder of something he should have erased.
And yet—I’m still going. Because he told me to.
I don’t waste any time in calling Bella. If I have to deal with Melanie, so does she.
The phone barely rings once before she answers. "Hey, Lia!" Bella’s voice is bright, easy, like she was expecting my call.
I lean back against the wall, exhaling. For the first time since Cassius called, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact.
"Hi, Bella. Has Dad called you yet?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Not yet, but I’m assuming he called you," she says.
"Yup. To talk about Melanie’s wedding."
Bella groans dramatically. "Ah. Yes. The event of the year for the media’s prince and princess." Her voice turns mockingly haughty, like some over-the-top reporter announcing breaking news.
I laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because she’s right.
"Dom isn’t a bad guy though," Bella adds, more thoughtful now.
"No, he’s not," I admit. "But he doesn’t know the real Melanie."
Bella hums in agreement. We both know what that means.
Silence stretches for a second, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind where I know Bella’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
"So, let me guess," she says, tone lighter but laced with understanding. "Dad made it sound like you have no choice?"
I scoff. "What else is new?"
"And you’re going, aren’t you?"
"I don’t know yet," I lie.
"You do," she corrects, amused. "You always do."
I rub my temple, sighing. "Yeah, well. It’s not like I have a real excuse."
"Not one he’d accept, anyway."
"You okay?" Bella asks. She gets it. She always has.
I hesitate. Just long enough for her to notice. Just long enough for me to almost say something real.
But I don’t. "Yeah. Just tired."
She lets it slide.
"If Melanie’s already planned every second of this, why does Cassius want us to call her?" I ask, changing the subject. Because that’s the last thing I need—to think about any of this longer than necessary.
"Probably some power move," Bella says. "You know how he is—he needs to make sure we acknowledge how important she is. Like we haven’t spent our whole lives being reminded."
"Or maybe he just enjoys making us suffer," I mutter.
"That too," Bella says. "But you know what’s weird? He made it sound like it was urgent, like we were supposed to check in with her. As if Melanie doesn’t already have everything planned down to the last second."
I sigh. "She probably planned this too. Maybe we’re supposed to beg her for instructions so she can feel even more important."
"Obviously," Bella scoffs. "She probably has an itinerary, including the precise angle the cameras should catch her from at all times."
"And a breakdown of what emotions to display," I add.
"Right," Bella says. "Shock and delight at the ring. Graceful amusement at Dominic’s jokes. Deep, contemplative love during the vows. All carefully rehearsed."
"Nothing about this is real," I mutter.
"Of course not," Bella says. "It’s a production. And we’re the extras in her perfect, award-winning love story."
"Maybe if we lay low, we can avoid being in too many scenes," I suggest, though I don’t believe it.
Bella snorts. "Yeah, good luck with that. You know how she is," she pauses, voice hitching slightly. "You sure you're okay?"
I exhale slowly. "Why wouldn’t I be?"
"Because this should’ve been you," she says softly.
My stomach clenches.
"Bella—"
"You and Dominic were together for years," she continues. "You were going to get married. And suddenly, he’s with Melanie. Engaged after, what? A few months?"
I grip the phone tighter. "It wasn’t sudden."
"Yes, it was," she says. "One day, you and Dominic were planning your life together, and the next, he was with her. And now they’re about to get married."
I press my lips together, refusing to respond. Because I know she’s right.
One day, Dominic told me he loved me. That he saw a future with me. That I was it for him. And after that… I wasn’t.
I wanted to love him the way he needed me to. I did love him. But I couldn’t show him. I couldn’t express it, not the way normal people did. Not the way Melanie could.
I remember the way he looked at me the night it ended. How exhausted he seemed. How hurt. "You don’t love me." "That’s not true." "Show me."
I couldn’t.
Melanie could.
"You never talk about it," Bella says after a beat. "Not once. Not even when it happened."
"Because there’s nothing to talk about."
"Lia—"
"It wasn’t some big betrayal," I cut in. "We broke up because it wasn’t working. He and Melanie just… made sense."
Bella scoffs. "Melanie doesn’t ‘make sense’ with anyone but herself."
I don’t argue.
"Did you love him?" Bella asks.
The words land like a weight in my chest.
I force myself to respond. "It doesn’t matter."
She’s quiet for a moment. "You did."
I don’t confirm it. I don’t have to.
"Do you still?" she asks softly.
I close my eyes. "Bella, let it go."
She sighs. "Fine."
A beat of silence. "Do you want to just call her now?"
"Might as well get it over with," I mutter.
The phone goes silent for a second before clicking.
"Finally," Melanie says, smooth, controlled, like she’s been waiting for this call. Not a greeting, just acknowledgement.
"Hey, Mellie," Bella says, voice dripping with fake sweetness.
"Don’t call me that," Melanie snaps immediately.
I smirk, shifting my phone to my other hand. At least I’m not the only one suffering.
"Right, right," Bella says innocently. "Forgot how much you hate stupid nicknames."
Melanie ignores her.
"Father has spoken to you both, I assume."
"He called me," I say.
"And now you’re calling me," she muses, like she’s pleased we’re following some unspoken order. "I suppose it’s better than being ignored."
Bella sighs loudly. "So, what’s the plan here? You just want us to show up, sit through the ceremony, and pretend this whole thing isn’t one big PR event?"
"It is not just an event, Bella," Melanie corrects, voice clipped. "It’s my wedding. My career. My future. Everything has to be flawless."
There it is.
"The press will be watching. The entire industry will be watching. This isn’t just about me—" she pauses, correcting herself, "well, it is, but it’s also about the image of this family. This is a moment to solidify everything I’ve built. I cannot afford distractions."
I roll my eyes. Of course, she means us.
"And not about Dom?" I ask, leaning back against the couch.
Silence.
Her voice sharpens like a blade. "It’s Dominic. Not Dom." She doesn’t stop there. Her tone shifts, controlled but pointed. "And we both know he was meant to be mine, Ophelia."
I grip my phone tighter. The casualness of it, the certainty, makes something twist deep in my chest.
"Right. Of course," I say, keeping my voice even. I should let it go. I should move on.
I met him first. I loved him first. But that doesn’t matter. Not to Melanie. And now he’s marrying her.
I swallow the thought down like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t make my stomach twist. Like it’s not another piece of something I had stolen from me.
"So, what exactly are you expecting from us?" I ask, forcing the words out.
Melanie, of course, doesn’t hesitate. "There’s a schedule. You’re both expected at the rehearsal dinner, the press brunch, the charity gala, and, obviously, the wedding itself. I’ll send over the itinerary, and I expect you to follow it exactly."
She doesn’t wait for acknowledgment. Doesn’t ask if we’re available. It’s already decided.
As if this entire conversation hasn’t been nothing but orders, she tacks on a sickly sweet, "Gotta go. Smooches."
And just like that, the line clicks.
She’s already hung up.
I pull the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen. Of course, she didn’t wait for a response. She never does.
"Bye, Melanie," Bella says, voice flat and unamused. "So great catching up."
"Yeah. Can’t wait for all of it," I add dryly.
Bella groans. "We are going to need so much alcohol to get through this."
"So much," I agree, finally exhaling as I let my head fall back against the wall.
She sighs. "Anyway, I have to get back to work. I just took a late lunch, and I swear if I hear one more person tell me I have a 'heroic profession,' I might scream."
"You're doing good things, Bells," I say, even though I know she hates when people say it.
"Yeah, yeah," she replies, but I can hear the smile in her voice. "Text me later?"
"Of course. Bye, Bella."
"Bye, Lia."
The line clicks off, leaving me alone with my thoughts. A soft chime breaks the silence.
I glance at my phone, expecting a message from Melanie, but it’s not a text. It’s an email. From Melanie’s assistant.
Still, I tap the screen. The email opens, and there it is—a meticulously curated timeline of my impending suffering.
From: Kimberly Cho, Assistant to Melanie Arden To: Ophelia Arden, Arabella Arden Subject: Dominic Forsythe & Melanie Arden Wedding Itinerary – Finalized Schedule
Cover Story Photoshoot – Required. Full family participation. No opt-outs.
Engagement Documentary Interview – Pre-scripted testimonials. Be prepared.
Bridal Press Conference – Live-streamed. Designer sponsors featured. No mistakes.
Exclusive Bachelorette Celebration – Industry event. Cameras everywhere. Smile.
Charity Gala – High-profile attendance mandatory. No plus-ones.
Wedding Feature Special – Documentary-style footage. Minimal speaking.
Rehearsal Week – Daily prep, media staging, and curated family moments.
Rehearsal Dinner – Filmed. Dress code enforced. Individual statements expected.
Pre-Wedding Brunch – Final press event. No opt-outs.
Wedding Day – International coverage. Press interviews guaranteed.
Post-Wedding Magazine Feature – Additional press appearances may be scheduled.
I scroll to the bottom, where a final note from Melanie glares back at me in bold text.
This is a carefully curated event. Any deviations will reflect poorly. Please don’t make this difficult.
I stare at the words, gripping my phone tighter. Translation: Don’t embarrass me. Don’t complain. Show up and play your part.
I press my lips together and exit the email, as if ignoring it will make it go away.
But it won’t.
It never does.