Ophelia
I look after him, stunned, my heart beating wild in my chest. I can’t believe I just let him do that to me.
I’m burning with shame, and with a dozen other feelings I can’t even begin to name. The way his mask slipped at the end, the cruelty seeping back through… I should have expected it.
Since the moment I first saw him, his eyes have held nothing but loathing. So yes, it’s my own damn fault for allowing him to touch me in the first place.
And I don’t know what’s wrong with me, because I’ve more self-respect than this.
So why am I so bloody weak in his presence?
But this ends now.
I’m not one for confrontation, I usually avoid it. My sister says I’m too much of a people pleaser, and perhaps she’s right. But even I can’t let this carry on. I was lost in the moment, frustrated, fed up. He scratched an itch, nothing more.
The problem isn’t that he had his fingers inside me. I let him, I came, I took it for what it was.
Why not? If he was offering, I had every right to take it. I’m not ashamed of that.
What enrages me is the way he spoke to me. The way I keep letting him speak to me. His contempt, his hate, always on his tongue, always laced into every word. That’s what I can’t stand. That’s what has to stop.
If he despises me that much, he can keep his distance. If I permit his hands on me, then so be it. But I won’t let him spoil it with his venom afterwards.
This hot and cold routine of his is exhausting. And my feelings for him?
Nothing but a mess.
I shake myself out of it and head for the shower. A quick rinse, a rough blow dry, makeup, clothes—I’m done in record time, though I’m already late. The party started hours ago.
If it were up to me, I’d be in pyjamas and socks with a cup of tea and something sweet, half asleep in front of The Vampire Diaries.
But no, duty calls. As one of the founding families, I’m expected to stand with the Thirteenth Circle, whether I like it or not.
I jab my insulin, throw together a sandwich, and head for the door.
The barbarian snapped the lock earlier, and it barely holds when I shut it. I make it look closed, at least, and leave with a huff.
Tomorrow I’ll have to get it fixed. Perhaps I’ll sleep in Octavia’s room tonight, there’s no chance I’m staying here with a broken lock.
St. Monarché might look safe, but people are ravenous for power, and they’ll do the most idiotic things to grasp at it.
The cold night air greets me as I step outside, and I’m grateful for the comfort of dark jeans, a cream Chanel jumper, and my favourite Burberry coat, paired with the soft UGG boots I practically live in the moment September arrives.
I follow the narrow road and cut left into the woods, my boots crunching against damp leaves scattered across the forest floor. Ahead, the faint thrum of bass and laughter guides me on.
Bellamy arrived today. The thought alone makes me smile. Tomorrow morning, I’ll finally take him out for our first ride on the island.
The music swells louder as I near the clearing. I’m certain the sound carries all the way to the main building, but no one will complain. A Thirteenth Circle event silences even the faculty.
I hear a crack behind me, twigs breaking underfoot. I stop and glance over my shoulder, but there’s nothing, just shadows shifting with the wind. My chest tightens. I’m being ridiculous. The woods are full of people tonight. I carry on.
The trees thin and the lake comes into view, lit by strings of lanterns swaying between the trunks. Music hums from hidden speakers, and a bonfire blazes by the shore. A few students are splashing in the lake, mad, considering the temperature, but with enough alcohol you hardly feel it.
The rest lounge on benches, glasses tipping as they laugh.
Beyond the clearing is the cabin, Circle ground. They use it for meetings, punishments, all sorts of things people whisper about.
I scan the crowd.
Octavia is here, head thrown back in laughter, her pink hair incandescent in the firelight.
Piper sits alone in a wooden chair by the water, hunched over her phone, strands of ginger hair falling across her face. If I had to guess, she’s reading.
Adelaide, dressed in her usual black leather, her dark curls loose around her shoulders, stands a few paces off in conversation with three men, high ranking Circle members, if memory serves.
One of them is the second in command, Lucian Ward. The true leader remains unseen, though everyone knows he attends this academy and pulls the strings from the shadows. Lucian is the face of authority, because the leader never shows his own.
I’m about to move towards Octavia when the music cuts without warning. Murmurs ripple through the clearing, feet shuffle, and every head turns towards the cabin porch.
The same three men Adelaide had been speaking with step out of the doorway, dragging a student between them. His heels drag against the wood, shoes scraping with every step until they let him drop. He crumples to his knees with a groan.
Silence falls over the crowd.
Lucian steps forward. His voice slices through the night.
“We are gathered here this evening for our customary first term celebration. Yet some among us have forgotten their place. The Circle must remind you of the order that governs this institution.”
He nudges the boy with his shoe, sending him sprawling. “This one thought he could infiltrate a family far beyond his reach. He believed he could steal what was never his. He thought himself cleverer than the Circle.”
Gasps scatter, but no one dares move.
“Tonight,” he goes on smoothly, “we shall allow our guests the pleasure of administering his punishment… a welcome gift.”
Whispers break out around me. My brows knit. He can’t possibly mean…
“As you know, the Ferrum Syndicate has joined us, as part of a… collaboration.” He smirks. “Be good hosts. Extend them every courtesy.”
I follow his gaze and spot them immediately, four men in black masks. Only their eyes are visible, the rest of the surface marked with stark insignia that stretch across the face. A wolf. A marionette. A raven.
And then the diamond. His stare finds mine through the firelight, sharp and unrelenting, and I know exactly who he is.
I’d pieced together what I could about the Ferrum Syndicate, every rumour worth hearing, every scrap Octavia was willing to share. Officially, our paths have never crossed. They shouldn’t have.
And yet I’m certain Arlo knows me.
The heir of the Vass family. Old money. French.
Their fortune comes from a mining empire, gold, diamonds, stones beyond price.
Outwardly, it’s all luxury and refinement, behind the scenes, their reach runs far wider.
They’ve been rivals of ours for as long as I can remember.
It’s why he was at Velmark Academy… or used to be.
Cruel laughter snaps me out of my thoughts. Lucian looks down at the boy on the ground.
“Start running,” he orders, in a cold voice. “And beg they show you mercy.”
The one in the raven mask lets out a low, amused laugh. “If you think that, you don’t know who we are. We’ll give him a head start. We’ve the whole night ahead of us, after all.”
The boy bolts. People around me laugh.
I almost pity him. Almost. He tried to play the Circle, and anyone who does that ought to know better. Cross us, and we cross you.
From the look of it, this was his parents’ doing, they wanted something from one of our families and sent him to do the dirty work. Of course he was caught, now he’ll pay the price.
We’re all puppets to our families, and the Thirteenth Circle is conveniently dressed up as discipline. It isn’t really about keeping order at St. Monarché. It’s far messier than that, a useful veneer for the errands and cruelties our parents prefer not to be seen doing themselves.
The music resumes, as though nothing happened. People drift back to their drinks and cigarettes and tangled embraces. I can still feel eyes on me. The Ferrum Syndicate hasn’t moved, they’re confident they’ll catch the boy regardless.
My gaze finds Arlo, the diamond motif on his mask gleams in the firelight, and my chest tightens with a feeling I’d rather not name.
He sits sprawled in a chair. A girl perches on his lap. I recognise her vaguely, Zara, from a wealthy London family. She has one hand on his cheek, the other pressed to his chest, arching towards him as she whispers in his ear.
He doesn’t break eye contact with me. One hand holds a drink, the other rests, casual and idle, on the arm of the chair. He isn’t touching her at all.
Zara follows his gaze and lands on me, her mouth curving into a sneer. I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. The sheer cliché of it. Somehow the blame always falls on the woman, never the man. Utter nonsense, if you ask me.
The next second she turns back to him and crushes her mouth to his. His eyes stay on mine, as if waiting to see how I’ll react.
The pang in my chest deepens, and for a moment I wonder if the concussion is making me delusional. Because there’s no reason for me to react like this to a stranger.
On the outside, I school my features into indifference. I will never give him the satisfaction of breaking me.
I shrug him off, what game he thinks he’s playing, I can’t begin to guess, and I turn away. As I do, I hear a commotion behind me, but I don’t look.
I keep walking deeper into the woods, refusing to glance back. Why on earth would I?
I’m already irritated with myself for reacting to him at all. Now I’m even more so. None of it makes sense. He clearly knows something, but it’s equally clear he will never offer me clarity.
All these tangled thoughts make me feel sick.
I don’t understand why it hurts so much. There’s no sense in it. He’s nothing to me, and I’m nothing to him.
Yet my chest twists as though I’ve been betrayed by someone who mattered, which is absurd. Because if we truly were something, wouldn’t he be at my side? Wouldn’t he prove that I meant more than this to him?
So perhaps I do know him. Perhaps there was a moment, once, where our paths crossed and I somehow earned his hatred. But beyond that, we are strangers. Entirely.
So why does my chest tighten so unbearably at the sight of him with another woman?