Ophelia
Yesterday, after Arlo left, I fell asleep crying.
Crying for what?
For him?
For myself?
I don’t even know anymore. I just know I need to pull myself together. I should know better by now.
Today, I’ve done nothing but pretend everything is fine, buried myself in lectures, notes, anything that keeps me from thinking.
By the time classes end, I’m drained. I go back to my dorm meaning to read, but the moment I sit down, sleep takes me.
When I wake, it’s already dark. December steals the light too early. The clock on my nightstand says five.
I drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water over my face until the sleep slips away, and wipe off the remnants of my makeup.
My reflection looks pale. I twist my hair into a high ponytail, grab my riding clothes from the wardrobe, and pull them on.
The stables are quiet when I arrive. The air smells of hay, rain, and the soft earth outside.
Bellamy whinnies the moment he sees me, ears flicking forward, as if scolding me for neglect. I smile faintly, stepping close to stroke his white neck.
“Hi, love,” I whisper, pressing a kiss between his eyes. “Missed me, didn’t you?”
He nudges my shoulder in answer. I saddle him, tighten the girth, and mount. The first drops of rain fall as we leave the stable.
I don’t turn toward the training arena. I guide him toward the woods instead, the long trail lined with skeletal trees. The wind hums through the branches. Thunder rumbles somewhere distant.
Bellamy tosses his head, uneasy.
“It’s all right,” I murmur, tightening the reins just enough. “Just noise. Nothing else.”
When the thunder rolls again, louder, he flinches but keeps moving, trusting me.
The rain thickens, tapping hard against my helmet, soaking my gloves. The scent of wet pine fills the air. I let him gallop, his hooves thudding against slick ground, the rhythm fierce and alive.
The rush of it, all the noise in my head, goes quiet.
Then a flash splits the sky. Bellamy jolts sideways, muscles bunching beneath me. I grip the reins tight, lean low, murmuring to him until his tremor eases. “Easy, boy. Easy.”
By the time we reach the stables again, we’re both drenched. I slide down, unbuckle the saddle, and rub him dry as best I can before giving him feed.
He nudges my pocket for sugar cubes, as always. I give him two, stroke his muzzle, and close the stable door behind me.
Rain still falls, softer now. I walk back to my dorm, boots squelching on the gravel path.
The moment I’m inside, I strip off my wet clothes and step beneath a hot shower.
When I finally step out, wrapped in a towel, my skin feels raw but clean. I pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper, tugging the sleeves down over my hands.
My phone isn’t on the table. Or the nightstand. I check the desk, the bed, nothing. It must be in my bag.
When I unzip it, my fingers brush against paper and my stomach drops.
No. Not again.
I pull the note out slowly, my breath catching as I unfold it.
A murderer can’t escape her sins. Everything in life has a price. Yours is coming due.
The words blur for a second, the room spinning around them.
My chest constricts. I can’t breathe. I press a hand against it, try to inhale, exhale, again and again.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
But my lungs refuse to cooperate. My body feels detached, distant, trembling. I sink to the floor, back against the wall, the paper crumpled in my hand.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself. “Breathe, please.”
Eventually, the tightness in my chest loosens, the pounding in my ears fading to a dull thrum. I drop my head against my knees, shaking.
When I finally look up, a flicker of movement catches my eye.
My gaze lifts to the window, the one that faces straight into Arlo’s dorm.
Midnight blue.
Green.
He’s there, standing in the shadows. For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just watch each other through the glass.
Then his head tilts, just slightly, and he smiles.
A cruel, knowing smirk.
Something cold unfurls in my stomach.
No. It can’t be.
But my intuition is screaming at me.
I push myself up, my legs shaky, my heart pounding so hard it blurs every thought.
I don’t bother with a coat. I yank the door open and run, down the corridor, down the stairs, out into the rain.
The cold stings my skin, but I barely register it.
The men’s dorm rises ahead, the windows dimly lit. I take the steps two at a time, breath catching in my throat.
I already know which room is his, the one facing mine.
The front door isn’t even locked. I push it open, and it slams shut behind me, the sound echoing through the quiet.
The living room is empty, dimly lit, the air still.
I move through it slowly until I reach his bedroom.
The door is slightly open. I push it wider and step inside.
The sight before me knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
On the bed lies Zara.
On his bed.
The same girl who kissed him at the first Circle party.
The one he told me not to worry about.
The one he swore meant nothing.
The memory crashes through me.
“You kissed her.”
“She means nothing. Never did. Never will. You don’t have to worry about her.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She’s lying in his bed now. I can’t see much, the sheets hide most of her, but her shoulders are bare, her hair tangled, the air thick with a truth I don’t want to believe.
I look away. The sight is too much.
We aren’t together. He hasn’t cheated. But it feels as if he has.
I try to switch it off, to pretend my chest hasn’t just splintered at the sight of another woman in his bed.
My voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “You were the one sending me those notes,” I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
A faint smirk curves his mouth. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”
“Why?” I manage, barely above a whisper.
He tilts his head slightly, the ghost of that smirk still there. “You know why.”
But I don’t. Not really. I just don’t say it out loud.
He’s told me often enough that he despises me, this shouldn’t come as a shock.
He promised revenge, after all.
Yet it does.
Because his hands never felt like hate. Nor his mouth. Nor the way he touched me. None of it felt like a lie. It felt consuming, unguarded… painfully real.
Except it wasn’t.
My gaze flicks between him and Zara, the pressure in my chest tightening until it’s hard to draw breath.
But I’ll be damned before I let either of them see me break.
My head throbs, the pain matching the pulse of my heart. I feel sick, whether from what I’m seeing or from the ache itself, I can’t tell.
When I look back at him, he’s watching me closely. There’s something almost like concern burning there, though I might be imagining it.
“You remember when you told me not to worry about her, or any other woman?”
“Yes,” he says, that cruel smirk curving his mouth again. “I lied.”
My heart.
Boom, boom.
Shatters.
Splintered beyond repair.
If he’d put a bullet through me, it would have hurt less than this.
This betrayal, if that’s even what it is.
Can it truly be betrayal when he never promised me a damn thing?
Yet after everything we’ve shared, the hate, the pull beneath it, his touch when he forgot to be cruel, the nights in the mountains, the confessions about his mother, I thought there was more.
I saw him pulling away again, yes, but I told myself it was fear.
Not this. Whatever this is.
I suppose I am, after all, painfully naive.
Naive enough to think that hate could soften.
Naive enough to believe that love could bloom in the wreckage.
Naive enough to think that a man like Arlo Vass could ever choose me, and mean it.
My vision blurs. I place a hand against the wall to steady myself, to keep from collapsing.
I won’t cry.
I won’t cry.
I won’t cry.
He takes a step toward me, as though to steady me.
“Don’t,” I say, hardly recognising the sound of my own voice.
I look up at him through the haze, his figure blurred and indistinct. “Don’t ever touch me.”
He stands there, shirtless, wearing only a pair of pyjama trousers. I glance at the woman in his bed, she’s smirking.
How utterly cliché.
I shake my head and turn away, but his hand shoots out, catching my wrist. His voice slices through the silence. “Get the fuck out. Now.”
Behind me, the girl lets out an annoyed breath but doesn’t say a word. I hear the sheets shift, the faint scrape of movement, but I don’t look at her, I can’t.
I keep my eyes fixed on a single point on the wall until the front door clicks shut, leaving only the echo of it between us.
I wrench my hand free from his grip and shove him back, palms flat against his chest.
All the chaos inside me, every feeling clawing for space, narrows to one.
Anger.
“Why?” Push.
“Why?” Push.
“Why?” Push.
“What did I ever do to you?” I shout, my voice breaking. “Why send those notes? Why sleep with her? Why hurt me like this?”
He says nothing.
“Say something!” I cry, shoving him harder, his back meets the wall.
I stop, my breath ragged. “Why her? You promised,” I whisper, tears spilling freely now.
A thousand emotions flicker across his face, anger, pain, something that looks dangerously like regret.
“Why?” I ask again, but the word comes out small and broken.
I step back, but he catches my wrist once more. I twist out of his grasp and scream. “Don’t ever touch me again!”