10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Ophelia
I ’m anxiously excited to meet Rhys in person. We’ve spoken a few times on the phone. He’s investigating my family. He said he wants to talk face-to-face.
Not going to lie, that freaks me out.
I don’t love the idea that there is actually something for him to find.
The coffee house he picked is tucked between two brick buildings, the kind of place you’d only notice if you were looking for it. Dim lighting, scratched wooden tables, the air thick with espresso and something sweet baking in the back. It doesn’t draw attention, which I guess is the point. Far enough that I won’t get caught. Close enough that I can disappear if I have to.
Rhys is already here, seated near the window, fingers drumming idly against a ceramic mug. His eyes scan the room like he’s expecting to be caught—or like he’s the one doing the catching.
He looks just like his byline photos—dark, unruly hair, sharp blue eyes that miss nothing, a posture that says he’s listening even when no one’s speaking. He doesn’t just observe stories; he unravels them, pulls them apart until there’s nothing left hidden. And now, for whatever reason, I’m the story he’s waiting for.
I walk over and slide into the seat across from him.
"Hi, Rhys," I say.
"Ophelia," he acknowledges, his gaze assessing, scanning, filing me away like evidence.
A beat of silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable—just measured.
"You always meet your sources in places like this?" I ask, glancing around at the nondescript coffee shop.
"Safe. Public. Neutral," he replies easily. "Harder for someone to disappear without a trace."
I raise a brow. "Reassuring."
"Depends on who you are."
"And who am I?"
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes flicking back to me. "That’s what I’m here to find out."
I lean back, crossing my arms. "Actually, you said you have something for me."
"I do." He sets his mug down, fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic. "I found something about your sister. And your father."
That surprises me.
I mean, I know they’re cruel, calculated, and incapable of empathy. But they actually did something? No way. That’s not how they operate. They don’t get their hands dirty. They manipulate, they push, they ruin people from a safe distance. That’s how they work.
So if Rhys has something—something real—that means…
No.
It’s probably nothing. Some shallow, tabloid-level scandal, the kind that makes headlines for a week and disappears. Maybe another affair. Some money laundering. A quiet little bribe.
Bad? Sure. Unexpected? Not even a little.
What if he knows something bigger? What if he knows something about Julian? No, that’s impossible. There’s no way he could have dug that deep. Right?
“So,” Rhys starts, fingers drumming against his cup, gaze sharp. “Melanie Arden. Hollywood’s golden girl. Critics call her a once-in-a-generation talent. Directors say she’s transformative. Fans swear she feels real in every role.”
He pauses, watching me, waiting for a reaction. I don’t give him one. “But here’s the thing,” he continues, his voice measured. Too careful. “She wasn’t always like that. Ten years ago, she was just another struggling actress. No connections. No famous last name. Just another pretty face trying to make it.”
I swallow hard. I know this.
“She wasn’t bad, exactly,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “But she wasn’t good, either. Forgettable, at best. Casting directors passed her over. Directors called her stiff. She could hit her marks, say her lines, but she couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t make anyone believe her.”
I remember. I remember the way she used to force emotion, how nothing ever quite landed. And I remember how I used to feel everything too much—how my emotions bled into everything I touched.
Rhys leans forward, his voice as smooth as it is deliberate. “Something changed.”
My stomach twists.
“She started getting better. Not all at once, not overnight—but suddenly, it clicked. She started landing roles. Small ones at first. Indie films. Side characters. And people started paying attention.”
At the same time, I was losing something. It was slow, subtle, like a leak I couldn’t find. My paintings still looked like mine, but they felt hollow. Like I was mimicking myself instead of creating something real.
But Melanie? She was gaining something.
“She worked steadily for a few years,” Rhys continues, fingers tapping lightly against the table. “She was solid. Good, even. But five years ago? She wasn’t just good anymore. She was extraordinary.”
A tight knot forms in my stomach.
“She didn’t just improve,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “She became the best. Directors called her a once-in-a-generation actress. Critics swore her performances were visceral. She could cry on cue, break down in ways that felt too real. No one could touch her.”
I stare at the table.
I know. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. That thing inside her—that ability to pull emotion from nowhere, to make every moment raw. It used to be mine.
Rhys keeps watching me. “It’s weird, right? People don’t just become that good. Not like that. Not after years of being fine at best.”
I don’t answer. Because no one questions it. No one remembers how she used to struggle. There are no bad reviews. No clips of awkward performances. No proof that there was ever a time when she wasn’t brilliant.
It’s like that version of her—the one who failed, the one who tried and fell short, the one I grew up with—never existed.
I press my nails into my palm, grounding myself. Quiet. Steady. Keep it together.
Rhys tilts his head, his voice lowering. "You ever wonder how she did it?"
I force a shrug, even as my pulse hammers. "Not really."
Rhys doesn’t buy it. He knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t call me on it. He just watches, his blue eyes too sharp, too focused—like he’s waiting for me to slip.
I shift in my seat, resisting the urge to look away. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Because he’s right. Something isn’t normal. Something isn’t natural. Maybe this is something I should talk to Julian about.
No. What am I saying? I don’t want to talk to Julian. I don’t want to go to him for anything. It’s better if we keep our distance.
I push back my chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor. Rhys doesn’t react, just watches as I stand, his expression unreadable.
"I’m done with this," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. Too raw. Too fast. But my thoughts are racing, tangling together in ways I don’t want to untangle. “I don’t care if you keep looking into Melanie. Or my father. But I’m not helping you.”
Rhys exhales through his nose, his fingers curling around his coffee cup. He studies me, considering. "You sure about that?"
I hesitate. Just for a second. I nod once. I turn and walk out before he can say anything else.
I need to think. I need time. I can’t let myself get sucked into this.
I glance at my watch—almost time for lunch with Bella and Rosalind. We try to meet once a month, but Bella’s been buried in work, and Rosalind’s been running a charity event. I’m the only one with time to spare. So I work around their schedules.
The rain picks up as I step outside, slicking the pavement, soaking into the fabric of my jacket. Perfect. Like I wasn’t already annoyed enough. I climb into the cab, pressing my forehead against the cool window as the city blurs past.
The restaurant is small, family-owned, the kind of place that doesn’t change. No gimmicks, no overpriced nonsense—just food people actually want to eat. The air is charged with the scent of fresh bread and garlic, something simmering on the stove.
A few families sit in booths, voices low but comfortable, silverware clinking against plates. Nothing fancy. Nothing that demands attention. Just a place to exist for a while.
I spot them in our usual booth and slide in, cutting off their conversation.
Rosalind looks up. For a second, she just stares—like she’s trying to read me.
She still carries herself with the same quiet grace, but there’s something softer about her now. Her honey-blonde hair is still styled, but not in that perfect, untouchable way it used to be. A few strands fall loose around her face, brushing against the faint lines near her green eyes—the kind carved by years of worry, but never bitterness. The elegant dresses and pristine makeup she once wore have given way to a more effortless beauty—simple gold earrings, a warm-toned sweater, barely-there lipstick.
She smiles at me like I am her biological daughter. And in every way that matters, she is my mother.
My mother, Calliope Arden, died when I was five. I don’t remember much—just flashes. The sound of her laughter. The smell of oil paints and lilacs. The way she used to cup my face in her hands, pressing a kiss to my forehead like she was imprinting something onto my skin.
Six months after she was gone, my father married Rosalind. I was too young to understand what it meant, but I learned quickly. He had been having an affair. Rosalind got pregnant while my mom was still pregnant with me. That’s how I ended up with a half-sister only six months younger than me.
But I never blamed Rosalind. Even when I wasn’t hers, she treated me like I was. She combed through my hair after ballet class, packed my lunches, tucked me into bed. She never tried to replace my mother, but she never let me feel like I was alone.
She stayed until Bella turned eighteen, until she was off to college. The day after graduation, she finally walked away from the life my father had built for her. But she never walked away from me.
We kept in touch. We stayed close. We never had to question whether we were still family.
I feel lucky to have her. And that smile—God, that smile—makes me want to cry.
"Lia! You made it!" Bella exclaims, grinning.
"I wouldn’t miss it," I say, forcing my voice steady.
Rosalind’s eyes stay on me. Still searching. Still soft. "Hi, honey."
"Hi, Rosalind." I say it casually, like it doesn’t feel like something big. But my smile is huge, and I don’t try to stop it.
"How was your meeting with Rhys?" Bella asks.
The waitress drops off our food. We don’t even have to order. They know us here.
I take a bite of my salmon Cobb salad, the flavors hitting all at once—fresh, bright, perfect. I groan, closing my eyes for a second.
"He figured out Melanie was average at best and suddenly, she’s amazing." I shrug.
"I mean, we all knew that." Bella rolls her eyes, stabbing her fork into her pasta.
Rosalind stays quiet. I glance at her, and there it is—that flicker of sadness. She hides it well, but I know what it’s about.
Melanie disowned her. Pretends she doesn’t exist. I don’t say anything. What would I even say? I just let the silence stretch between us.
"Well, ladies, I hate to eat and run, but my lunch hour is pretty much up, and I have to stop at the store before I head back," Bella says, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
Rosalind smiles softly, standing to kiss her cheek. "It was good to see you, honey."
"Please be safe," I say.
"Always." Bella grins before pressing a quick kiss to my cheek and waving at the staff before heading out.
I watch her go, twisting my fork between my fingers.
Bella got a job running a program for women who’ve been trafficked. She’s doing a lot of good. Helping them get back on their feet.
She’s incredible at it. But it’s dangerous. And I can’t shake the feeling that one day, we’re going to lose her to it.
Rosalind hums in approval, her fingers circling the rim of her glass. “I’m so proud of her.” Just as I take a sip of water, she switches gears completely. “Speaking of which… Bella told me about the man you were dancing with at Melanie’s wedding.”
I choke. Actually choke. The water goes down wrong, and I have to press my fist against my chest to clear my throat. “Excuse me?”
Rosalind grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t remember.”
I do remember. Unfortunately. The way Julian held me, the way his voice curled around my name, the way my pulse betrayed me every time he looked at me. But I am not talking about this. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
“It was just a dance,” I say, forcing my voice into something neutral.
Rosalind’s brows lift, sharp and knowing. “Bella said it didn’t look like ‘just a dance.’”
Of course she did.
“Was he a friend of Melanie’s?” Rosalind asks, like it’s an innocent question.
I should lie. I should give her a simple answer and move on. But the truth presses against my teeth, and the way she’s looking at me—like she actually cares—unsettles me more than the question itself.
“No,” I say. And that should be the end of it. “He’s not. Just a guest, though.”
Rosalind doesn’t even hesitate. “I don’t believe you. He’s someone to you.”
I scoff, reaching for my water. “Why do you say that?”
She tilts her head, like she’s studying me, like I’m a painting she’s trying to decode. “Because, honey, if he wasn’t, you would’ve just said no to the dance.”
I freeze. She’s right.
If I hadn’t wanted to know him—even subconsciously—I would’ve just walked away. That’s what I do. I shut people out, push them away before they can hurt me. But that night… I didn’t.
I don’t like what that says about me.
Before I can shut this conversation down, she shifts again. “I know something happened with Melanie, and that reporter is onto something.”
My stomach tightens.
Rosalind isn’t one to pry. She barely talks about Melanie at all. She’s spent years avoiding it, staying out of the mess, out of the conversations, out of the headlines. And yet, she’s bringing it up now.
I force my expression into something neutral. “What do you mean?”
She exhales, slow and measured, studying me like she’s choosing her next words carefully.
“I mean,” she says, voice cooling, “she's involved in something. And I think you know exactly what I mean.”
I don’t answer. Because answering means acknowledging it.
Rosalind shakes her head. “I may not have been there, but Bella told me everything.”
My stomach tightens.
“She told me about the guy you danced with. About the way Dominic watched you the whole time.” She pauses, searching my face. “And about how Melanie lost her mind over it.”
I force a small scoff. “Melanie loses her mind over everything. This is hardly special.”
“Is it?” she challenges. “Because what I heard is that Dominic couldn’t stop looking at you, and Melanie could barely stand it.”
I stare at the table.
"She stole him, and she’s still insecure."
I scoff, shaking my head. “She has nothing to be insecure about.”
Rosalind doesn’t blink. She just waits.
I hate that.
I grab my glass of water, taking a slow sip like I can drown out the conversation, like the weight in my chest isn’t growing heavier. She has nothing to be insecure about. She won. She has him. She has everything. So why does it feel like I lost more than just him?
I place the glass down carefully, too carefully, like I need control over something. “Melanie always thinks someone is out to take what’s hers. It’s a personality trait at this point.”
Rosalind hums, unconvinced. “And Dominic?”
I swallow hard. “She already has him.”
Rosalind scoffs. “Why does he keep looking at you like he doesn’t want you to move on?”
The words land like a slap. “I—” I start, but I have nothing to say.
Because I feel it too. I feel it when his gaze lingers too long, when his expression tightens just enough to make me wonder if he regrets it. And I know—I know—that he doesn’t want me to move on. Not really.
Rosalind exhales sharply, shaking her head. “He made his choice, Ophelia. And now he’s sitting in it. You don’t owe him anything.”
I press my lips together. I didn’t push him away. I didn’t betray him. He made that decision all on his own. And now, I can make mine.
Lunch winds down after that, conversation shifting to lighter things—Bella’s work, the restaurant’s incredible dessert, Rosalind’s insistence that I take some leftovers home. But the weight of our discussion lingers, threading through my thoughts as I step outside.
The rain hasn’t let up. It’s a steady drizzle now, soft but relentless, seeping into my clothes and clinging to my skin as I walk to the curb. I pull my coat tighter around me, but it does nothing to shake the chill creeping up my spine.
By the time I slide into the backseat of a cab, my fingers hover over my phone, hesitating. The city blurs behind streaks of water on the window, headlights glowing against the wet pavement. I could go home, pretend none of this is gnawing at me, let it all settle into the pit of my stomach like it always does.
Or I could do something I’ll regret.
I don’t know if this will work. I don’t even know if he’ll answer. But I try anyway.
Ophelia: Julian? Can you hear me?
Julian: Ophelia? Is that you?
Ophelia: Yeah. I thought that we should maybe talk.
Julian: Of course. Where?
Ophelia: Do you think you could come to my apartment? I should be home soon.
Julian: Meet you there.
I get home and before I even unlock the door, I know that he's in there. I can feel him. So I decide to just go in and talk to him.
When I open the door, my breath catches.
He’s handsome—undeniably so. But something is different. The effortless composure he always carries feels frayed at the edges, like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap. His red eyes, flecked with gold, don’t burn with their usual sharp amusement or quiet arrogance. Instead, they seem dimmer, shadowed by something I can’t quite place.
He looks drained. Not in the way mortals do—no dark circles, no signs of wear—but there’s something weighted in the way he stands, something restless in the way his fingers twitch at his side, like he’s holding something back. His jaw is tight, his usual smirk absent.
It’s subtle, but I notice. And for some reason, that unsettles me more than anything else.
"Are you okay?" I ask, setting my things down.
Julian exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off something heavy. "I’ve been better," he says. His voice is quieter, rougher, like he’s been carrying something that even he can’t quite disguise. "You wanted to talk?"
I nod. "Yeah. About us."
His gaze locks onto mine, unreadable but unwavering. He doesn’t look surprised. He never does. But it’s clear that he’s been expecting this.
I sit on the couch, and he moves with me, effortless and instinctual, settling beside me without hesitation. Julian never keeps his distance, never shies away. He’s always there, always steady, always close enough to remind me that this—whatever this is—exists whether I want it to or not.
But for the first time, I’m not trying to shove it aside.
For the first time, I am the one choosing to be here. To talk. To figure out what this thing between us is, even if I’m not ready to surrender to it.
I exhale, pressing my fingers against my palms, grounding myself in the reality of this moment—one I never thought I’d allow myself to have.
Julian doesn’t speak. He waits. Not with impatience, not with expectation—just with the kind of certainty that says he knew I’d get here eventually.
I’ve spent my whole life losing—pieces of myself, my art, my choices, my future. But this? This is mine.
"I don’t want to just accept this.” The words come slow, deliberate. “I want to choose it.” I swallow hard, fingers curling against my knee. “I want to try. Us. Not just the bond. Not just fate. I want this on my terms.”
The words feel foreign. But not wrong.
Julian tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s finally seeing all the pieces of.
“Your terms.” His voice is smooth, quiet, like the weight of those words is something he’s turning over in his mind, letting settle.
I nod. “No more hiding. No more pretending. I have a chance at something real. And for once, I’m taking it.”
A slow inhale. A longer exhale. Julian watches me like he’s waiting for something—or maybe savoring it. “Good.”
Just one word. One that settles into my bones, anchoring me.
I exhale, tension unraveling from my spine.
He moves, slowly, testing, just close enough that my breath catches, fingertips grazing my jaw, his touch featherlight, tilting my chin just enough—
My phone rings.
The moment snaps like a thread pulled too tight. I flinch. Julian stills. His gaze flickers to my phone, eyes glinting with something wicked and unsatisfied.
“Fate,” he murmurs, “has a terrible sense of timing.”
I glance at the screen. Melanie. Of course.
Pressing my lips together, I answer. “What?”
"You need to be at the premiere tonight," Melanie says smoothly, skipping over any form of greeting.
I scoff, shifting my weight against the couch. “Not interested.”
A sharp sigh crackles through the phone. "Oh, come on, Ophelia. Don’t be childish.”
The audacity. I almost laugh. “Childish?”
“It’s important,” she insists, her voice dripping with manufactured patience. “To all of us.”
“To all of us?” I repeat slowly.
There’s a shuffle on the other end, followed by a muted exchange I can’t quite make out.
"Ophelia, please." Dominic. I close my eyes for a second, dragging in a breath before opening them again. Of course he’s involved.
"You don’t have to do this," I mutter, rubbing my fingers against my temple. But we both know he will.
“I’m not asking for much,” he says, his voice softer now, edged with something that almost sounds like regret. “Melanie’s right. This could be huge—for all of us. It’s a big night.”
"For her," I correct flatly, my nails digging into my palm.
A pause. No argument. No denial. Just silence.
Julian watches me, eyes sharp and his eyes turning to liquid gold. I can feel it—the choice settling in my hands. For the first time in my life, no one gets to decide for me.
"Fine," I say, my voice steady. "But I'm bringing a date."
The silence that follows is thick, heavy.
“No.” Dominic’s voice is sharp. Immediate.
But Melanie, sounding almost amused, overrules him. “Yes.”
Julian exhales dramatically, shifting against the couch like this is the most entertaining conversation he’s ever heard. His arm stretches along the back of the couch, his hand grazing my shoulder in a way that’s almost absentminded—like it’s second nature, like he belongs there.
"You know," he muses, voice smooth and tauntingly casual, "I’ve always wanted to walk a red carpet."
Dominic is the first to react. "Who's—"
Melanie speaks at the same time. "Who—"
I don’t let either of them finish. "My boyfriend."
Julian lets out a quiet chuckle beside me, the sound curling around the room like smoke. His fingers trace the curve of my shoulder before his palm settles against the nape of my neck.
He leans in slightly, his voice brushing against my skin.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, low and amused, "we’re much more than that."
Dominic inhales sharply, the sound picked up by the speaker. "You’re—?"
I glance at Julian. His red-gold eyes meet mine. Waiting. My decision. My choice.
I let out a breath and turn back to the phone.
"We’ll be there."
Another pause.
Dominic’s voice is tight when he speaks again. "We?"
I don’t hesitate. “I’m not going without him.”
The silence is deafening, stretching longer than before.
Unexpectedly, Melanie laughs—a quiet, satisfied sound that unsettles me more than it should. "Fine," she purrs, like she’s just won something I don’t understand yet.
The call ends with a sharp click. I drop my phone onto the couch and turn to Julian. He watches me with a slow, lazy grin.
"How do you feel about a movie premiere?"
Julian hums, tilting his head like he’s considering it, but his grin only deepens. “Oh, darling. You have no idea what you've just started,” he says smoothly, deep red flashing in his eyes. "Let’s give them a show."