Chapter 7 - Ophelia
Ophelia
I wake up to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, and for a blissful three seconds, I forget where I am.
Then I remember.
Kidnapped. God of the Underworld. Cult. Prophecy. Vines erupting from my hands. Shadows.
"Fuck," I mutter into the silk pillowcase that's part of the most comfortable bed that I have ever slept in.
I sit up slowly, taking inventory. My wrist still aches. The bruises have darkened to deep purple and yellow. My ribs protest when I breathe too deeply. But I'm alive, and free-adjacent, which I suppose is something.
The cream silk pajamas are pristine, which means I didn't sweat through them despite the nightmares I vaguely remember. Dreams of shadows and hands grabbing me and a woman's voice saying daughter like it meant something.
I dreamed of my father screaming, of sharp pain, but those dreams have been happening since before my father died, so they aren't new traumas, which I suppose is some sort of boon.
Walking around the room, I glance around, taking in the room in the daylight. It truly is lovely, and the view is insane, and yet, as I stand in the middle of the room, I can't help but feel as though the walls are closing in on me.
As beautiful as the room is, this is a gilded cage, and I have absolutely no plans to allow myself to be caged in this room like some sort of kept bird.
So, despite how badly I want to crawl back into bed, I don't. I pad over to the door and check it, pulling on the handle slightly.
Still unlocked. He kept his word, and I feel myself relax slightly.
I don't know why it matters that he kept his word, but it does.
And as I step out of the master bedroom, I am surprised to find myself alone.
The penthouse is silent. No signs of Hades, which is both a relief and somehow disappointing. For someone who has spent most of their life alone, I actually hate how lonely I feel right now.
This house is huge, curated, and even the padding of my bare feet seems to echo across the space. I want to run back into the room, close the door, and hide.
But my body has other ideas, and my stomach is growling and clenching, reminding me that I haven't eaten since…when? Before the kidnapping? That feels like a lifetime ago.
I walk around hesitantly, nervous, like a prisoner. Hades might have left the door open, but that doesn't mean he wants me to have free rein of his house.
"Not that it matters," I mutter to myself. "If he doesn't want me in his house, he shouldn't have locked me in."
I continue padding through the space, impressed by the expensive furniture and art. For an alleged God of Death, Hades has good taste.
I laugh at the very thought. "Fuck, I'm going crazy," I mutter as I stumble upon the kitchen.
It's massive, all black marble and stainless steel that looks like it's never been used. Do Gods eat?
Apparently, they use Post-its, because one is on the counter. The bright neon looks weirdly out of place, and yet, the script is elegant with perfectly slanted letters, each one the same size.
Help yourself to anything. I'll return this evening. - H
"How thoughtful," I say to the empty room. "The kidnapper left me breakfast instructions."
I snort to myself as I open the fridge.
It's fully stocked with everything a person could want: fresh fruit, yogurt, fancy cheeses, ingredients I don't even recognize. It's so normal that I continue to think that Hades is a lunatic.
After all, the God of the Underworld wouldn't eat yogurt for breakfast, right? If he did eat, it would be like the blood of children or something.
I grab a container of strawberries and eat them standing at the counter, trying not to think about how perfectly ripe they are, how they taste better than any strawberries I've ever had.
"God, I love the rich," I say, licking the juice from my fingers. "They might be insane, but the produce is top tier."
I eat two more pieces before I start exploring.
If I'm stuck here, I might as well figure out where "here" is.
The house is huge and appears to sit atop a mountain. Its open-concept living areas flow into each other, all decorated in blacks and grays with touches of muted metals. It's expensive but not ostentatious. There's art on the walls, and various artifacts carefully lit and displayed.
They are nice enough, but overall, forgettable.
Except one.
It's a landscape, ancient-looking, showing a meadow full of flowers.
Poppies, maybe. Or anemones. It's beautiful in a haunting way.
Its location is also prominent, a place of pride in the house, and as I stand across from it, staring at it, I can't help but feel as though this painting is some sort of memory.
I reach a shaky hand towards the flowers, but I stop myself before I can touch.
"Don't be weird," I mutter, as I give it one more glance before moving on, cataloging things.
The living room is filled with furniture that looks too nice to sit on. There's a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves (who actually has a library in their home?), a dining room with a table that seats twelve, and an office door that is closed but unlocked.
I hesitate, hand on the handle. This feels like crossing a line. This whole house is Hades, but this was his space, specifically.
My hand hovers over the metal, and before I realize what I'm doing, before I make a conscious thought, I'm opening the door.
Hades crossed my boundaries last night, locking me inside, so perhaps we are even.
I step inside.
Inside sit a dark wood desk, leather chairs, and more art. Another massive window overlooks the city, and I'm starting to realize that Hades enjoys a good view. It's the theme of the house.
There are maps on one wall, marked with pins and notes I can't quite read from here. As I look at them, I see that the language isn't one I'm familiar with, and I move on.
My earlier reticence is gone, and I begin snooping, pulling open the desk drawers. Or at least, trying. They are locked.
I frown but leave them alone.
Instead, I examine the remainder of the office. There's a shelf behind the desk that contains several artifacts, and as I move closer, I feel myself drawn to them.
There's a wine cup, ancient-looking, decorated with figures I'd need a mythology degree to identify. A small statue of a woman, marble, weathered with age. A dagger with an ornate handle.
And jewelry.
A lot of jewelry for an office, and all displayed beautifully. In fact, all of the artifacts appear to be presented in a curated fashion. Next to the velvet boxes sits a silver comb, ornate and ancient, its handle carved with vines and flowers.
Rings in velvet-lined boxes, gold and silver, some with stones. Bracelets. A necklace with a pendant shaped like a pomegranate, rubies for seeds, I think.
My fingers hover over them. They feel...sad. Like they're waiting for something. Someone.
The moment my fingers touch the metal, the world tilts.
I'm standing in a garden, surrounded by flowers I don't recognize. The air smells like spring and earth and something sweeter. There are hands in my hair, gentle, and I'm laughing at something.
"You're impossible," a deep voice says, amused.
Hades looks at me. His eyes are dark but filled with mischief. His hands are warm, and he pulls me closer to his body. I feel the hard points of him pressing into my softness. I'm in his lap, and I wiggle slightly, enjoying the way that his pupils grow larger.
"And you love it."
"I love you," he corrects, and then he's kissing me, and it feels like coming home—
I jump back, nearly falling over Hades's chair in my effort to move away as quickly as possible.
"What the fuck." I press a hand to my chest, trying to stop my heart from racing. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my face, his lips on mine. It felt real. More than real.
It felt like a memory. It was so vivid I swore it was happening.
And maybe it had—
"No," I say out loud, shaking my head fervently. "No, that wasn't—that was just—"
"A flashback?"
I spin around so fast this time I do fall over, landing unceremoniously in Hades's office chair.
There's a woman in the office doorway. Black hair, dark eyes, wearing tailored pants and a silk blouse, looking like she belongs in a boardroom. She's beautiful in a way that makes me think predator before I think anything else.
"Jesus Christ!" I snap. I push myself up from the chair, trying to right myself as much as possible. "Do you people not believe in knocking?"
She smiles. "I did knock. You were occupied." Her eyes flick to the jewelry. "Touching things that aren't yours." She cocks her head. "Though I suppose that isn't entirely correct."
Her eyes are full of mischief, and I feel like I'm being mocked.
"And you are?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips, trying to appear more confident than I feel, especially considering I'm still standing there in my pajamas.
The woman looks over at the jewelry, smirking.
"I'm Hecate." She moves into the room like she owns it, graceful and confident. "Hades's... associate. And formerly, your friend."
"My friend?"
"Persephone's friend," she amends. "Though you don't remember that, do you?"
I cross my arms, defensive. "I don't remember being Persephone because I'm not Persephone.
I'm Ophelia. I run a failing flower shop and can barely afford rent.
I'm not a goddess." I want to point out that neither is she, but I bite my tongue.
Apparently, this is a group delusion, and if a bunch of rich people want to engage in insanity, who am I to stop it.
"And yet." Hecate picks up the silver comb, turning it over in her hands. "You touched this and saw something. Felt something."
She's not asking, and I feel myself going on the defensive.
"That doesn't mean—"
"What did you see?"
I don't want to answer. But something about her gaze makes me think lying won't work.
"A garden," I say finally. "And...him. Hades. We were..." I trail off.
"Happy?" Hecate supplies gently. "In love?"
"It wasn't real." I press a tender spot on my head. "I am clearly concussed."
She sets the comb down carefully. "Persephone loved gardens. Spent hours in them. And she loved him, despite everything. Despite how it started."
I want to argue, but I can't ignore the way I felt just moments ago.
Hecate studies me for a long moment, then smiles. It's not unkind, but there's something more to it that I can't put my finger on. "You have more bite than she did. I like it."
"What?"
"Persephone was...softer. Gentler. She would never have told someone to fuck off." Hecate's smile widens, and she looks almost giddy. "You're an improvement."
I don't know how to respond to that. It makes me uncomfortable. "Are you looking for Hades?" I ask. "I'm not sure—"
"I came to see you," Hecate continues. "To see if the rumors were true. That she's really back."
I roll my eyes. "I'm not—"
"You are. Whether you remember or not." She moves toward the windows, looking out at the city. "Your soul is hers. That doesn't change just because your memories are gone."
I press the bump on my head again, allowing the pain to ground me. "This is insane."
"Says the woman who grew vines from her hands yesterday."
"He told you?" I'm surprised. Shocked even. And I feel a little betrayed.
"He didn't need to. I could feel your power awaken," she tells me. "And I'm not the only one."
I sit heavily on the chair. I want to ignore this delusion, but at the same time, my logic refuses to let me. It's like there is a war in my mind, and I'm not sure which side is going to win. At the end of it, I feel just weirdly exhausted. "What do you want?"
"To help," Hecate says simply. She turns to face me. "Persephone was my friend. One of the few I had. And you, Ophelia, you need someone who understands what you're going through."
"And that someone is you?"
She sits in the chair near the window, crossing her legs. "I'm a goddess too. Magic, crossroads, liminal spaces. I've been around since the beginning. And I've seen what happens when power awakens without guidance."
I think of the vines, the way they'd erupted from me with no control. The way I'm sure I could have strangled someone with them.
"It's dangerous," I say quietly. "Isn't it."
"Very. But it doesn't have to be." Hecate leans forward. "I can teach you. How to control it. How to channel it. Persephone had the power of spring, growth, rebirth, life itself. That's not a small thing."
I inhale sharply, flexing my fingers. I can still feel the vines.
"I don't even know if I believe this."
Her brow raises. "You're starting to," Hecate observes. "Or you wouldn't be exploring the penthouse. Touching old things. Trying to make sense of what you're feeling. You'd be trying to escape."
She's right. I hate that.
"What about the cult?" I ask. "Hades said they're after me."
Hecate's expression darkens. "They are. And they're not the first. Every century or so, someone gets it in their head that they can resurrect the old gods. Bring back what was lost. It never works, but they keep trying."
"Why?"
"Because humans fear death. They fear being forgotten. And the old gods, Demeter, Apollo, Artemis, all the ones who faded, they had cults who loved them. Who can't let go."
"Demeter," I repeat. The name makes something twist in my chest. "She was Persephone's mother, right?" I remember that from school.
"Yes." Hecate watches me carefully. "And the cult believes you're the key to bringing her back."
"How?"
"That's complicated. And probably best discussed when you're ready to hear the full truth."
I want to push, but something in her tone tells me she won't budge.
"Does Hades know you're here?" I ask instead.
"I don't need his permission to visit my friend."
"I'm not your friend. You don't know me."
"Not yet," Hecate agrees. "But I'd like to."
She stands, smoothing her pants. "When you're ready to learn about your power, to stop pretending you're just a mortal florist who happened to get kidnapped, call for me."
"Call for you?" I don't miss the difference in phrasing.
"I'll hear you." She moves toward the door, then pauses. "Ophelia?"
"What?"
"Persephone was gentle. Kind. She sacrificed herself for people she loved." Hecate's smile is sharp. "Don't do that. The world doesn't need another martyr. It needs a queen who fights back."
And then she's gone.
I sit in the silence, that phantom kiss still burning on my lips.
A queen.
"Fuck," I whisper.
Because a very small, very traitorous part of me is starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they're telling the truth.