Ophelia
Damn him.
Damn him.
Damn him.
I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to sleep with him again. By now it ought not to surprise me, with Arlo, it’s always the same.
One moment I’m consumed with the urge to have him, the next I could cheerfully throttle him.
He knows exactly how to wield that infuriatingly perfect body, how to ignite mine until every nerve feels alight.
The sex is nothing short of ruinous, leaving me light headed, and trembling in ways I’d rather not admit.
And then, inevitably, he opens that irritating mouth and ruins it all.
You’d think I would be accustomed to it by now. It’s practically his signature.
Yet somehow his words still slip beneath my skin, cutting deeper than I can disguise.
I loathe the power he holds over me. And worse still, I loathe myself for yielding to it. For being too weak to refuse him, though the truth is, I don’t wish to.
And that, above all, infuriates me.
As soon as I returned to my dorm, I headed straight for the shower.
Now, after a little self-care, I’m curled in bed with a soft blanket draped over my legs and pillows propped behind my back.
My hair is twisted up in a towel, a sheet mask cool against my face. A cup of tea waits on the bedside table, sending up a thin curl of steam into the quiet.
The television hums in the background while my needles click together, the steady rhythm soothing the noise in my head.
The girls always used to tease me for this habit, calling me an old lady for preferring an evening with wool and needles to a night out.
Yet every winter they wrap themselves in the hats, scarves and gloves I’ve made, declaring them stylish and wonderfully warm, as though they hadn’t mocked me for knitting in the first place.
I’ve turned out socks and jumpers as well. To me, it’s quite straightforward, if I knit for you, it means you matter.
And if I’ve known you long enough and you don’t even own a mismatched pair of socks from me, well—that says everything one needs to know.
I do rather wish for another glass of wine instead of this tea, but I’ve already had one before the party. A second would tip the balance, and with my condition I know my body too well to take the risk.
When it’s time, I peel off the mask, dry my hair, smooth a little lip balm across my mouth, and put the knitting neatly away.
I switch off the lights and slip beneath the covers, the soft flicker of the television casting faint light across the room.
I try to turn my thoughts anywhere but him, the man with the midnight blue eyes.
And at some point, without even noticing, sleep finally claims me.
***
I wake with a violent start, my heart thudding against my ribs. The clock on my nightstand reads five.
I fall back against the pillow, pressing the heel of my hand to my eyes. My skin is slick with sweat, my sheets tangled from another restless night—another nightmare that slips through my grasp the moment I reach for it.
Each attempt to remember sends a searing ache through my skull, intense enough to make me nauseous.
I want my memories back, desperately, pathetically so. And yet, a part of me hopes they never return.
Because the thought of what I might uncover… it terrifies me.
I stay in bed a while longer, thumbing idly through social media, letting the familiar noise fill the silence.
Until a picture fills my screen.
In it, it’s me. Me and Arlo.
My stomach sinks as I scroll further, realising it’s everywhere, reposted across dozens of accounts.
The original source isn’t hard to find. St. Monarche?’s gossip page.
The caption reads: Which member of the Ferrum Syndicate has Ophelia Bellanti so neatly ensnared? And does he have the faintest idea what he’s gotten himself into with this one?
Now it’s everywhere, splashed across society pages and the kind of glossy online columns that thrive on speculation.
Each post has its own ridiculous caption: Who’s the man seen with Ophelia Bellanti?
She looks utterly smitten, could there be wedding bells?
I exhale in frustration, sinking further into the pillow, already knowing father will be livid once it reaches him, and no doubt, it already has.
I’m not supposed to be seen with any man. I’m meant to be the dutiful Italian daughter, pure, waiting for marriage and a wedding night that marks my first.
And it won’t just be father who’s seen the picture. His allies will. His rivals too.
And I already know what he’ll say, that I’ve shamed him, humiliated the family name, made myself undesirable to any respectable future husband.
What he doesn’t know, what must never reach him, is that I’m not even a virgin anymore. The thought alone chills me.
I can already picture the kind of fury that would follow, and I don’t mean raised voices or slammed doors.
I mean the kind that ends with me being auctioned off to the highest bidder, or worse, sent to a brothel. It’s not as if he hasn’t threatened it before.
The truth is, I was more astonished by that realisation than anything else. From the fragments I remember, I’ve always kept my distance from men, not because I wasn’t interested, but because I was afraid.
And I never met anyone who felt worth the risk.
I exhale, then glance back down at the picture.
It’s me and Arlo. People are dancing all around us, blurred shapes and lights in the background, but we’re the focus.
His hand rests low on my stomach, his head buried against my neck, and my eyes—my eyes are glowing. The expression on my face is one I don’t dare examine too closely.
His mask hides his features, but even so, he’s unmistakable to me. Tall, broad shouldered, dressed in dark clothes that somehow make him look sinful.
I toss my phone onto the bed and sit up, my heart beating a little too fast for comfort.
My feet ache faintly under the dressings, so I start unwrapping the bandages.
Once they’re off, I study the wounds. They’ve healed better than expected, only faint marks left now.
I reach for the drawer in my bedside table and pull out the small jar of ointment. Probably the last time I’ll need it. I rub a thin layer over each scar, just to be sure.
When I’m done, I stand and make my way to the bathroom.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and pat my skin dry before smoothing on my cream.
At my vanity, I do a touch of makeup, nothing excessive, just concealer, a hint of blush, and a soft pink gloss.
I run a brush through my hair, taming the strands until they fall neatly, then braid a small section at the front and secure it with the diamond clip. It glints faintly as I tilt my head.
Pleased enough with my reflection, I rise and step back into the bathroom. The pieces of jewellery I left scattered across the counter last night sit in a careless pile. I gather them into my hand and carry them back to the vanity.
Taking my seat once more, I open the top drawer and lift the lid of my jewellery box, placing the pieces inside. The sight that greets me makes me pause.
I’ve always had a taste for fine things, but this feels almost excessive. It’s as if, in the years I lost, I have somehow multiplied my collection.
Silver and gold gleam back at me, gemstones strewn among them, each unique in its own way.
I pick out a delicate moon shaped necklace and its matching earrings, then slide two bracelets onto my wrist, one adorned with tiny moons, the other with stars.
I choose two rings for my right hand, one for my thumb and one for my middle finger, and a few more for my left.
Ever since watching a documentary on mining, how vast stretches of forest were cut down, the land torn apart just to unearth a few precious stones, I haven’t been able to bear the thought of the real thing.
The images stayed with me, animals driven from their homes, habitats destroyed beyond repair. The entire industry struck me as barbaric, no matter how exquisite the outcome.
So, for years, I stopped wearing jewellery altogether. Then I discovered that you could buy pieces made with lab created stones, indistinguishable from the real ones.
It seemed a fair compromise.
I place the box back into the vanity drawer and step into the closet, dressing for the stables, jodhpurs, boots, and a fitted jacket.
In the kitchen, I prick my finger and check my blood sugar.
Low again.
Odd, considering I don’t feel it nearly as much as the numbers suggest I should. I reach for a carton of juice and drink it slowly, waiting for the familiar rush to level me out.
At the door I grab my key card and phone, and step outside. The dormitory is hushed at this hour, the corridors empty.
Beyond the doorway, the world is still dark, the kind of pre-dawn quiet where every sound seems to carry.
I slip in my AirPods, and a soft playlist hums to life. The time reads just before six.
I follow the path that curves past the main academy building and out toward the stables.
An occasional early riser crosses my path, but the grounds are mostly empty.
That familiar feeling creeps in, the sense of being watched. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. Only the faint outlines of trees and the glisten of damp grass in the low light.
Bellamy is waiting when I arrive, ears flicking as soon as he recognises me.
I greet him softly, running a hand down the length of his face before setting about our routine.
I check each hoof, and fasten the bridle.
Once everything’s in its place, I lead him out of the stable into the crisp morning air, the faint scent of hay still lingering.
We start with an easy trot in the outdoor arena, the rhythm of his hooves a steady beat beneath me. After a few laps, I guide him into light jumps, nothing too demanding, just enough to wake his muscles.
Droplets of rain begin to fall, dotting my sleeves and Bellamy’s mane.
It’s not unpleasant. If anything, the drizzle feels refreshing, cleansing in a way I can’t explain.
From where I sit astride Bellamy, I have a clear view of the football grounds beyond the fence. The team’s already in training, the coaches shout orders while the players run drills across the pitch.
And then the weight of a gaze hits me.
When I glance over… Arlo.
Even from this distance his dark eyes lock on mine. He’s in his jersey—Vass, 11 printed across the back, moving through some kind of conditioning drill, push-ups and sprints, muscles shifting and tightening beneath the fabric.
His expression gives nothing away, but the intensity of his stare goes straight through me.
I hold his gaze for a moment longer than I should. I take him in, the outline of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens, and before the familiar flash of hatred appears in his eyes, I turn away and press my heels gently into Bellamy’s sides, returning us to the course.
When we finish, I dismount and lead Bellamy back to the stable. I wipe him down with a towel, check his legs again, and refill his water and feed.
His breath fans softly against my palm as I stroke his muzzle. “Good boy,” I murmur before closing the stable door behind me.
I take the long route out, avoiding the football field altogether.
As I round the path near the rink, I almost collide with Piper.
She’s just stepping out, skates in hand, her leggings and fitted jacket still clinging with the faint chill of the ice.
She looks startled for a second before managing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Finished training for the morning?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes. I’d stay longer, but I’ve got class soon.” Her voice is soft, almost distant.
I can’t help but smile at her expression. “You always light up when you talk about skating.”
A small laugh escapes her, though it sounds tired. “It’s the only place that still feels like mine.”
She’s the best ice skater I’ve ever seen, elegant, utterly in her element on the ice. I have no doubt she’ll go professional one day.
When she starts to move past me, I don’t push her to stay. We exchange a brief nod, and I continue on my way back to the dorms.
Once inside, I change out of my riding clothes into a pair of fitted jeans, a soft Chanel knit jumper, white fluffy socks and my ankle boots.
In the kitchen, I check my blood sugar, then inject my insulin.
The coffee machine hums to life as I prepare a coconut cappuccino, the scent warm and comforting. While it brews, I toast some bread and top it with rocket, sliced tomatoes, and vegan cheese.
A soft stillness settles over me, but there’s something almost deceptive about it, the kind of calm that exists only to disguise the storm waiting just beyond it.