4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Ophelia
T he first thing I feel is the heat.
It’s not the blankets, not a dream fading into reality. This heat is real, it’s inside me, and it feels like it’s alive.
I inhale sharply, my body stiffening, heart kicking up like I’ve just startled awake from a nightmare—except there is no nightmare. Just silence and my bedroom, dim and still. Too still.
My fingers curl against the sheets, but my skin feels wrong—tight, electric, too aware. I feel it. A pulse, a hum beneath my ribs, a presence.
I don’t want to look, don’t want to confirm what I already know. But I have to.
My fingers shake as I peel the sheets back, tugging the collar of my shirt down—and there it is. The Mark. It’s bright against my heart, beating in sync with it. The color is different today, it’s a dark gold, twisting, moving .
My stomach drops and my breath locks in my throat.
No. No, no, no. It wasn’t a dream.
I throw the blankets back and get out of bed. Maybe a shower will get rid of it. Yeah, let’s go shower.
I walk past my dress from last night, crumpled on the floor where I left it. It doesn’t matter, it’s not like I’m ever going to wear it again.
The water is too hot when I step in, but I don’t turn it down. I scrub hard—hair, skin, everywhere, like I can wash off whatever is clawing under my ribs.
Soap and bronze glitter swirl down the drain. Jesus. I feel five pounds lighter.
The makeup is gone, scrubbed from my skin, but the mark remains. Not glowing this time, just there—dark, strange, like an ink stain that won’t wash away. A reminder.
What now?
I stare at the blank canvas in the corner of my studio. Might as well paint.
Painting is everything to me, or it used to be. Now, it’s different. I stare at my half-finished canvas. Gray. Again.
I loved color once, it meant feeling . My emotions used to cling to the paint—deep, visceral, and uncontainable.
Now everything is muted, caged, like I can’t quite reach it.
I can’t let them out. Hell, I can’t even say them. Every time I try, the words won’t come. It’s so fucking frustrating. It’s why Dominic broke up with me.
I sigh and start painting. With gray, of course.
I think about Ophelia of the past. The one who loved a man. And the man who loved her. But that was back when I could show it.
The first stroke is red.
Color floods the canvas, spilling from my brush without thought. It moves the way it always has—effortless, reckless, and alive.
Like I don’t have to think, don’t have to try.
My fingers are already smudged with paint, streaks of crimson and burnt orange smeared against my wrist, my forearm, the hem of my tank top.
I don’t care. I never do. The mess is part of it.
Arms slip around my waist from behind, broad hands settling low against my hips.
Dominic. I don’t have to turn to know it’s him. His body molds against mine, the warmth of him sinking through my clothes, his chest pressing firm between my shoulder blades.
"You’re making a mess," he murmurs, voice low and teasing as his lips graze the shell of my ear.
"So?" I drag a streak of deep blue through the red, watching them bleed together, shifting into a rich purple, something wild.
"So," he echoes, fingers skimming beneath the hem of my shirt, slow, searching, like he’s mapping out every inch of bare skin.
"You’re a distraction."
"You say that like it’s a bad thing."
I roll my eyes, but my pulse stutters when his mouth brushes my shoulder. My grip on the brush falters, the next stroke coming out uneven.
"I’m working." The words are thin, weak, barely holding weight.
"You’re always working." His lips curve against my skin, then press lower, open-mouthed, warm. His hands tighten against my hips, pulling me back into him, fingers flexing against my waist.
The brush slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor.
His chuckle is soft, smug, and vibrating against my neck.
"That’s what I thought."
I twist in his grip before he can say anything else, turning to face him. He’s already looking at me like he knows he’s won, like he’s already felt my body melt against his, already heard the breathless sigh I don’t want to give him.
Smug bastard.
I drag my fingers through the red paint and swipe it across his jaw.
He startles, eyes widening slightly before amusement flickers across his face. "You little—"
I laugh, stepping back, but he catches me before I get far, gripping my wrist, pulling me back in, pressing me against the edge of the table.
His mouth crashes against mine, all heat and teeth and hunger. I gasp against him, fingers tangling in his shirt, smearing red between us.
His hands find my waist again, firm, grounding, and he’s pulling me closer like he needs me there. Like he can’t stand the space between us.
I kiss him back, letting the heat take me, letting the world shrink down to just this, just him, just color and warmth and the way he tastes like coffee and something sweeter.
His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I shiver. His hands slide beneath my shirt, fingers pressing into my skin, spreading heat low in my stomach, between my thighs, making me ache.
"Dominic—"
"Shhh," he murmurs, lips brushing mine between words. "Keep painting."
I laugh against his mouth, shaking my head. He knows damn well I’m not picking up that brush again.
Not when his hands are on me. Not when I can feel the heat of him pressing closer, stealing my breath, making me forget what I was even working on in the first place.
I miss that, not just the way he touched me, but way we were. The laughter, the ease, and the way he made everything fun.
He may be a celebrity, but with me, he was just Dom. I never walked a red carpet with him. Never sat beside him at an award show, smiling for cameras.
He knew I hated that. He knew the spotlight was everything I tried to avoid. And he loved me anyway.
"You’re such a liar."
"Excuse me?"
"I said," I repeat, crossing my arms, smug, sure of myself, "you’re a liar, Dominic Forsythe. You cheated."
He gasps dramatically, hand clutching his chest. "I would never."
I scoff, pointing at the Scrabble board between us. "You absolutely did. Quotidian?Who the hell just has quotidian sitting in their brain like that?"
"Intellectuals." He smirks, leaning back on the couch like he isn’t the most insufferable person I’ve ever met.
"You’re an actor."
"Actors can be intellectuals."
"Uh-huh." I narrow my eyes, reaching for my phone. "I’m checking the dictionary for that one."
Before I can unlock it, he lunges, grabbing it from my hand and scrambling backward across the couch like a child trying to escape a time-out.
"Cheater!" I yell, laughing as I dive after him.
"Strategic genius," he corrects, ducking just in time to avoid my swipe.
"Strategic my ass!"
"Your ass is very strategic," he mutters, and I punch him in the shoulder, hard enough that he almost loses his grip on my phone.
"You’re ridiculous," I say between laughter, climbing over him, wrestling my phone from his hands, half-trapped in his lap now.
"I’m adorable."
"You’re insufferable."
"And yet, you’re still sitting here, all tangled up in me."
I freeze just long enough for him to take advantage, flipping me onto my back against the couch, hovering over me with that same smug, knowing grin. "You play dirty," I murmur.
"You love it," he says, kissing me before I can argue.
I don’t fight him. I never do.
Those moments, those times. I want that again, I miss that. I hate that he started to notice me change.
The slow shift in my personality happened in a way that I was able to convince myself that it wasn’t happening. I still laughed at his jokes, still kissed him in the morning, still cuddled at night.
Still painted in color.
But there were cracks—tiny, hairline fractures that I ignored. Until I couldn’t anymore.
"Are you okay?"
I blink up at him, pulled from my thoughts. We’re in bed, Dominic lying on his side, propped up on an elbow, watching me.
"Yeah," I say automatically.
His brow creases, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.
"You sure?"
"I’m fine, Dom." I reach for him, trying to make it true.
He lets me pull him in, lets our mouths meet in a slow, familiar kiss. But when I open my eyes, he’s already staring.
Like he’s trying to see something beneath my skin. Like he’s searching for proof that I’m still here.
"You don’t look at me the same anymore."
It’s not an accusation, it’s something much worse. A realization.
My stomach twists.
"That’s ridiculous," I murmur, rolling onto my side, pressing closer to him, trying to drown in the warmth of his skin so I don’t have to feel the way his words sink into my ribs.
"Yeah," he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
His fingers skim over my back, slow and thoughtful, like he’s trying to memorize me before I slip away completely.
I close my eyes and pretend I don’t feel it.
Well, after that, things got a thousand times worse. We argued constantly, but I never had anything to say.
Actually, I had a lot to say. But it wouldn’t come out, no matter what I tried. I couldn’t even change my facial expression.
And that wasn’t even the worst part. The first thing to go was my happiness.
And what was left in its absence? Anger.
That was the all I had left. So, I used it, clung to it, let it consume whatever broken parts were still inside me.
Eventually, there wasn’t even anger.I became nothing. A statue.
"Why don’t you love me anymore?"
Dominic’s voice sounds raw, desperate, but I don’t flinch. I just stare at him, arms crossed, body stiff, waiting. Waiting for what? For him to stop asking questions I can’t answer? For him to finally see that I don’t have anything to give?
"You don’t touch me the same," he continues, his voice edged with frustration. "You don’t smile at me. You don’t laugh with me. You don’t—fuck, Ophelia, you don’t even look at me like I matter anymore."
"So?" The word scrapes out of me, sharp and reckless, before I can stop it.
His brows pull together, hurt flickering in his eyes before something heavier settles in. Anger, resentment.
"So?" he repeats, voice tight. "That’s all you have to say?"
I exhale through my nose, my jaw locking. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to feel. "What else do you want from me?" I ask, my voice colder than I mean it to be.
"I want you to care!"
"I do!"
"No, you don’t."
The words are a punch to my ribs. I know he’s right, I know he’s seeing it now, really seeing it. That the happiness, the love, the warmth—it’s all gone. It drained out of me, and I don’t know when or how it happened.
But anger is still there.
Anger is the only thing left.
At least I had anger.
But what’s worse than that? Not being able to show anything at all. That’s what really broke us. It wasn’t the fights or the distance, it was the nothingness, that was what ended us.
And now he’s married to Melanie. Maybe he wanted her all along, she could give him what I lost. He could have the smiles, laughter, and softness that left me.
A woman who could stand beside him in front of the cameras. Walk the red carpet at his side. Someone he could be proud of.
Someone who wasn’t me.
"I need to tell you something." Dominic’s voice is quiet. Careful.
I look up from the table, blinking at him. He’s been shifting in his seat for the past ten minutes, fingers tapping against his glass, shoulders tense. Something is wrong, I feel it in the air between us, in the way his jaw tightens before he exhales.
"Okay," I say.
"I’ve been talking to Melanie." The words don’t register at first. "Not like that," he adds quickly, shaking his head. "Not at first."
"At first," I echo, my voice sounding far away.
His throat bobs as he swallows. He looks down, twisting the ring on his finger—the one he used to turn absentmindedly when he was nervous.
"I didn’t mean for it to happen."
"For what to happen?"
Dominic exhales, but I already know. I already fucking know. "For me to fall for her," he finally says.
Something inside me splinters. The words don’t just hit me. They tear through me, sharp and deep and horrifyingly real. My stomach twists, my pulse spikes, and pain floods through me like a tidal wave.
And I can’t show a single fucking ounce of it. I’m stuck sitting here, my fingers locked together in my lap. "Oh," I say. That’s it. That’s all that comes out.
Dominic exhales sharply, his chair scraping as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands thread through his hair, his body folding in on itself like he’s bracing for impact.
"I tried, Ophelia," he says, his voice lower now, more wrecked, more desperate. "I really, really fucking tried."
I want to tell him I know. I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to scream, cry, shake him, beg him to stay. But, I do none of it.
"Say something else," he pleads.
"Like what?"
"Like you care."
I do. God, I do. But my mouth won’t open, my fingers won’t unclench, my body won’t move, won’t shake, won’t react. I feel everything. And he sees nothing.
"I don’t think I do," I say instead.
His eyes snap shut, and when he exhales again, it sounds like something inside him breaks.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face. He looks wrecked. Like he wanted me to fight for this. For us. For him.
"I think I’ve known for a while," he says after a long pause, his voice quieter, sadder than I’d ever heard it.
I want to tell him he’s wrong. I want to scream that I still love him, that I never stopped. But I can’t, even if I could it would fall flat. Love means nothing when you can’t express it.
Dominic watches me for a moment longer, like he’s memorizing me, like he’s saying goodbye before he actually says it. "Goodbye, Ophelia."
He doesn’t shout, or slam the door, he doesn’t storm out in a rage like I want to. He just quietly leaves. And I do nothing to stop him.Because even as I shatter, even as I bleed out inside—he will never, ever know.
I can’t help it. The frustration, the grief, the rage—they snap all at once. I throw my paintbrush across the room and scream.Because I lost the ability to express my emotions everywhere.
Except here, where I’m alone. And what the fuck is the use of that?I’m going to be alone forever.
The thought should sit heavy in my chest. It should weigh me down, sink me into the emptiness where I belong.
I think about Julian Duvain, and suddenly, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel empty at all. He saw me, it was like he could see the emotions trying to burst free.He looked at me and knew—knew everything I was feeling before I could even name it.
And I’m starting to realize that what I thought was forever with Dominic might not have been right. He was too perfect, too clean, too safe.
But Julian? Julian is none of those things. And as I stand there, breathless, paint on my hands, my chest still heaving from the scream, I know one thing.
He’s dangerous. But I’m not afraid of him. I want him.
And that thought scares me more than anything.