3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Ophelia
I run out of the room as fast as my legs can carry me.
"What the hell happened, Ophelia?" my father says.
"Nothing. Do you know him?" I ask.
"You need to stay away from him. Got it?" he says, without any additional information. Of course, he doesn’t answer my question.
"Fine," I say, crossing my arms, refusing to budge. I won’t give him the satisfaction of walking away first.
My father grabs my arm again, leading me out to the ballroom. I shift this stupid dress around and trip a little over these heels.
The champagne-colored satin clings too tightly, smooth and flawless. The sheer panels at the sides feel like an afterthought—delicate, designed to hint at skin without revealing too much. The neckline plunges lower than I would have chosen, the slit creeping high up my thigh.
I feel like a stripper.
Melanie obviously picked this. It’s elegant, expensive, the kind of dress that should make me look like I belong in this world. But on me, it feels wrong—too polished, too curated, like I’m wrapped in something artificial. Like an accessory to the perfect image she wants to maintain.
The ballroom is a display of wealth more than a celebration. Gilded accents, towering floral arrangements, and polished marble floors that reflect everything back in pristine perfection. The air smells of expensive perfume and champagne, a careful elegance that feels more like a showroom than a wedding.
Paparazzi are everywhere.What a joke.
My father drifts off into the room, probably greeting guests and making his rounds.
I rub the spot on my chest. The mark is there, still burning, still peeking out just enough that I have to adjust my dress to hide it.
I don’t know what this is or if it means anything, but I want it off. Now. It still fucking burns like hell.
"Hey, Lia," I hear. I turn and see Bella walking up to me. In the same bridesmaid dress, it looks just as forced on her as it does on me, at least we match perfectly.
Her dark brown hair is swept up, a few loose waves already escaping, she doesn’t bother to fix them. Her deep hazel eyes dart around, filled with the same discomfort I feel. She tugs at the fabric like it’s suffocating her.
“I hate this,” she mutters under her breath. “You look just as miserable as I feel.”
She just huffs and takes another drink. The music begins, and I look over to see Melanie and Dominic walking onto the dance floor.
She’s trailing behind him, her hand in his, holding her dress. It’s massive, layers of ivory tulle billowing around her like a cloud, shimmering embroidery catching the light with every step. A true fairytale ballgown. The kind of dress meant to take up space, to demand attention, to make sure no one forgets who the bride is. I don’t care about the dress.
I care about the man holding her hand. It hits harder than I want it to.
I press my palm over my chest. The mark tingles, not painful but present—like it knows something I don’t. Like it recognizes something before I do.
Seeing him hurts.
The tenderness beneath my ribs lingers from whatever happened before, a reminder I don’t want but can’t shake. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll figure it out later.
Melanie and Dom are dancing. She moves like she’s floating, graceful, effortless, every step rehearsed to perfection. He holds her close, his hand at her waist, guiding her like she’s the only person in the room.
He’s looking at her like he used to look at me.
And honestly, it’s heartbreaking. Not that I can show it.
The music swells, their movements slow, intimate—something that should feel private, but isn’t. The cameras flash, the guests watch in admiration, and Melanie smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
They finish their dance and break apart.
"The dance floor is now open for couples," the announcer booms through the microphone.
"Great. Now we have to dance," Bella says.
"Speak for yourself. No one is going to ask me," I say.
The music shifts, a slower beat threading through the air. I barely register it before a guy steps up beside Bella, confidence rolling off him like it’s second nature.
"Can I have this dance?" Bella blinks, caught off guard.
He tilts his head, a smirk playing at his lips. "Or are you going to leave me standing here looking ridiculous?"
"See, I told you," I tell her. I can tell she’s about to say no. "Go," I say.
Bella hesitates, glancing at me like she’s waiting for an excuse to decline the offer. I meet her gaze and nod—a silent go ahead.
Her shoulders relax slightly, and after a beat, she takes the guy’s outstretched hand, letting him lead her onto the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd.
I rub my chest again, fingers brushing against the mark. The tingling doesn’t stop.
There’s a presence next to me that sends a shiver rocking through me. Not from the chill in the air, but from something else. I look to my right and see him. The guy from earlier. What is he doing here?
He shifts beside me, gaze flicking toward the dance floor. "The couples are heading out for a dance," he says.
I follow his line of sight. "I guess so," I reply.
"And you're not," he adds.
It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
I glance at him, but he’s already looking at me. Steady. Knowing. Like he sees something I don’t want him to. It feels like he knows me.
"Dance with me," he says. It’s more demand than request.
I look at him, stunned. "Okay," is all I can muster.
We walk out with all the other couples. The moment his hands find my waist, something shifts. He pulls me into his arms like I was always meant to be there.
All of a sudden, something clicks.
We fit. Perfectly.
Like his body already knows mine, like I was molded to fit against him, like this was always supposed to happen.
His hand presses firm against the small of my back, keeping me steady. He’s warm, solid, I’m not sure how I know it, but I know for a fact that he’s unshakable. My fingers curl against his shoulder, my body reacting before my mind catches up.
His scent drifts between us—dark, expensive, something rich and unfamiliar. I breathe it in without meaning to, and it settles somewhere deep, curling into my lungs.
The warmth beneath my skin spreads, sending tingles through me. The mark.
I swallow hard, not understanding this, not understanding him .
It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel effortless, like breathing.
"You don’t belong here," he says suddenly.
My eyes snap up to him. "Neither do you," I fire back.
He chuckles at me. Actually chuckles. And I hate that it curls low in my stomach, like I’m the punchline of an inside joke only he knows.
"I suppose not," he says, his grip tightening just slightly. "But I’m glad I came."
I scowl before I can stop myself. Yeah, this guy pisses me off. Not that I can express that—God forbid I show anything real.
I clear my throat instead. "I never caught your name," I say, watching him carefully.
For a second, he doesn’t answer. His smirk flickers, barely, but it’s enough to make me think I’ve surprised him.
"I never gave it," he says smoothly.
I narrow my eyes. Of course he didn’t. Of course he’s that kind of man—smirking, mysterious, and too pleased with himself to give anything away unless it benefits him.
His gaze lingers on my face, studying me like he’s reading a particularly complicated sentence.
"You look upset," he muses, like my irritation is entertaining. "So, I’ll tell you. My name is Julian Duvain."
He noticed. Wait. Noticed?
I haven’t been able to show anything in years. No one sees through me. No one even tries anymore. So how the hell did he?
"My name is Ophelia Arden," I decide to go with.
"I know," he says, his voice steady, unbothered.
Something about the way he says it sends a strange prickle down my spine. It’s too certain, too effortless. I narrow my eyes slightly, testing him. "You do?"
"I heard Cassius calling your name earlier," he says.
Of course he did. That should be explanation enough, something logical, something I can accept. But it doesn’t quite sit right. There’s something in his tone, in the way he’s looking at me, like he’s just been waiting for me to confirm it myself.
I try to focus, but my thoughts slip sideways. I want to kiss him.
The realization hits so fast it knocks the air from my lungs. Where the hell did that come from? I press my lips together, forcing my attention back to the dance, back to the steady movement between us, back to the warmth of his grip tightening ever so slightly as he pulls me closer.
Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It lingers, charged and heavy, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.
A throat clears behind me.
I turn, pulse still uneven, to find Dominic standing there. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something deliberate about the way he watches me.
Melanie is nowhere in sight—yet. But I know better than to let my guard down. She’ll make her appearance any minute.
Dominic’s gaze flickers between me and Julian, his expression unreadable, but there’s something sharp beneath the surface. Something he’s holding back.
"You’re really dancing with him?" Dominic asks, his voice low.
I blink, forcing my expression to remain neutral. There’s no right answer to that question.
Julian doesn’t move. Just watches, taking in every detail.
"Why wouldn’t I?" My voice comes out flat, distant. Just like always.
Dominic exhales sharply, jaw tightening. "Because I don’t know who he is."
Julian chuckles, quiet, dark. "Then ask."
Dominic ignores him. His focus is on me. "Are you okay?"
That question. The one he always used to ask me. The one I could never answer the way he wanted me to. I swallow. "I’m fine."
Julian’s fingers press slightly against my back, his hold still firm, still steady. He hasn’t let me go.
"You’re not." Julian’s voice is smooth, certain.
Dominic stiffens. His gaze flickers between us, something unsettled in his expression. "How would you know?"
Julian doesn’t hesitate. "Because she doesn’t have to lie to me."
Dominic’s jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t speak. Before the tension can break, a sharp, too-familiar voice cuts through the moment. "Well. Isn’t this interesting?"
Melanie. She walks up, chin high, her perfect mask slipping just enough to show the irritation underneath. Her gaze flicks between me and Julian, sharp, calculating.
"You looked like you were enjoying yourself," she says, but it’s not directed at me. She’s talking to Julian.
Julian smiles—slow, amused, like he’s already two steps ahead of whatever game she’s trying to play.
"Your sister’s a good dancer," he says casually. "She doesn’t need to be the center of attention to make an impression."
Melanie’s lips press together, the first crack in her performance. "How sweet. Though I didn’t realize she needed a date tonight. Funny, she didn’t bring one."
Julian hums, his hand still resting lightly on my back it’s not possessive. Just enough to remind her that I’m not alone.
"I go where I’m needed," he says easily. "And right now, she seems to need someone who sees her."
Melanie’s nostrils flare. For a second, she doesn’t know what to say. I wait for her to recover, to turn the moment around, to make me feel small like she always does.
But Julian doesn’t give her the chance.
"You should be more concerned about your husband," he continues, his smirk widening. "Considering he’s been standing here watching her dance longer than you have."
Melanie stiffens, just slightly, but I see it. She turns to Dominic, her expression smoothing into what is supposed to be natural, but there’s unease there. "Are you coming?"
Dominic hesitates for only a second. But that second is long enough for me to see it. Melanie sees it too.
Her fingers curl into the fabric of her gown before she forces them to relax. "I’m sure you’ve had enough fun for one night, Ophelia," she says, voice airy but her face is laced with ice.
She turns before I can respond, slipping her hand into Dominic’s and pulling him back toward the crowd. I should feel victorious, but I don’t.
Julian’s thumb brushes lightly against my spine, a subtle reminder that he’s still here. "That was fun," he muses.
I exhale, staring after Melanie and Dominic. "For you, maybe."
I’m ready to leave. I’m tired—physically and mentally, in a way I can’t quite name.
I’m over all of this. The crowd, the noise, the empty conversations that don’t mean anything. The way people glance at me like they’re trying to figure something out, like I’m supposed to be someone I’m not.
I need to get out. Away from the expectations, away from the unspoken tension that lingers in every corner. I don’t want to think about why. I just want to be anywhere but here.
"Picture time!" Melanie yells. "Come on, Arabella, Ophelia!"
Great. I sigh, stepping back from Julian. I miss his touch immediately. Like I never wanted to leave his side, or even his arms for that matter.
"Thank you for the dance. Maybe I’ll see you around." My voice is even, but I don’t quite meet his eyes.
"I’ll wait to make sure you’re okay," he says, his tone calm, certain.
I shift, glancing toward the crowd. "You don’t have to," I say. "You don’t even know me."
"But I want to," he says.
Something flickers in my chest. I ignore it. Before I can even comprehend that statement, Melanie yells again. "Ophelia! Let’s go!"
I hesitate, my pulse still too fast, my skin still too warm. I look at Julian one last time.
He’s staring at me, and he doesn’t look away, unashamed. Not when I step back, not when I turn, not even when I move toward the flashing cameras. I feel his gaze on me the entire time.
The photographer directs us into position, arranging us like perfectly placed dolls in a family portrait. Melanie at the center, Dominic at her side, my father standing tall with his pristine, handpicked family.
I take my place, but I don’t belong in the frame.
I don’t belong here at all.
"Smile," the photographer calls out.
My lips don’t turn up, the camera flashes, and I have to hold back a flinch. My focus doesn’t stay on the camera, I can't do what they’re asking me to do, instead my eyes drift to the side of the room, toward him. Slowly, an electric pulse starts at the mark and spreads throughout my body.
The mark.
The sensation isn’t painful, but it’s there—burning softly, an echo of something I don’t understand.
The camera flashes again. My pulse jumps, my body is still aware of Julian’s touch, the ghost of his hand on my back, the imprint of his fingers against my skin.
I shouldn’t be looking at him, but I can’t tear my eyes from him.
Another flash. Another second of pretending.
He holds my stare unflinchingly, and suddenly, this entire performance doesn't feel so heavy. I can hear Melanie say something, but I don’t know what she says because Julian lifts his chin slightly and smirks as his gaze rakes over my body.
The mark ignites again, heat licking beneath my ribs like it’s reacting to him, like it recognizes him.
Heat coils deep in my stomach, but I tear my eyes away before I do something reckless.
"Ophelia," Melanie snaps under her breath, voice sharp. "At least try to look like you want to be here."
My fingers curl slightly into the fabric of my dress, but I don’t answer. The mark is still thrumming with energy, pulling my focus.
Because all I can think about is the way Julian is still watching me.
And the way my body wants him.