Ophelia
Eighteen months earlier | Paris, France.
I’m suffocating in this dress.
The corset underneath is so tight it feels like my ribs are being rearranged.
My father insisted on it, said I needed to look immaculate. In his world, that translates to perfectly packaged, ready for business deals or marriage proposals, whichever comes first.
We’ve only been at this gala for an hour, but it already feels endless.
The ballroom is a blur of chandeliers and false smiles, politicians, socialites, businessmen, and criminals. This is the reason we’re in Paris. For this exact event.
I’ve shaken so many hands tonight that I’ve stopped bothering to count. Each one feels as empty as the last.
My feet ache in these heels. Don’t get me wrong, I love dressing up. I love high heels as much as the next woman, especially Yves Saint Laurent.
But this outfit, the one he chose, doesn’t feel like me at all. Wearing it feels like a punishment.
I shift my weight and fix the same polite smile I’ve been wearing all night while my father trades yet another empty greeting with someone whose name I’ll forget before dessert.
A man approaches, his strides confident, his face set in arrogance.
He looks like he’s in his fifties, maybe early sixties.
His suit is immaculate, his hair perfectly styled, and his eyes take in everything, as if nothing ever escapes them.
There’s a smirk playing on his mouth, and something in me tightens.
My father beams.
It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him all evening, which somehow makes it worse.
The man stops in front of us, shakes my father’s hand, and they trade pleasantries.
Then the man’s attention shifts to me.
He extends a hand. I hesitate, but habit wins, and I give him mine. He brings it to his lips, and the touch makes my skin crawl. I’ll need to scrub my hand raw later just to feel clean again.
“My daughter,” my father says, his voice carrying over the noise around us. “Ophelia.”
I school my features, the polite smile slipping easily into place. “A pleasure,” I murmur.
His eyes move over me. “Indeed,” he says, the word heavy with implication.
My father laughs, that familiar, false sound I’ve learned to hate. “I hope she’s to your liking.”
The words sting, cruel and humiliating.
To your liking.
As if I’m something he owns. Something to be appraised, bargained for, sold. Not a person with a will of her own, just a body that happens to breathe in his world.
I keep my smile, even as the blood drains from my face. My pulse hammers in my throat.
The man, whose name I neither know nor care to learn, lets his smirk deepen. “I think she’ll do quite nicely.”
My lungs seize. I force the smile tighter, until it feels like the corners of my mouth might split. I mutter something about needing to freshen up and step away before my legs give out.
I barely make it to the restroom before the shaking starts.
The door closes behind me, and I brace myself against the marble counter. My reflection looks ghost pale under the golden light. My chest rises too fast. I grip the edge of the sink, trying to ground myself.
Breathe, Ophelia. Just breathe.
I count.
One.
Two.
Three.
But the panic claws harder. The walls feel too close, the air too heavy. My father can’t do this. He can’t marry me off to that man.
But of course he can. And I don’t doubt for a second that he will.
I’m shaking so badly that the tears come before I even feel them. I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms, deep enough to draw blood.
When I finally manage to catch my breath, I force myself upright. I smooth the creases in my gown, wash my hands, take a tissue and dab carefully at the corners of my eyes, making sure my makeup still looks perfect. Then I step out.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I walk straight into someone’s chest.
Strong hands catch me before I can stumble back, firm and warm against my arms. And when I look up, everything else falls away.
Midnight blue meets green.
My heart forgets its rhythm.
It’s him, the man from the café.
I met him only a few hours ago, but it already feels like a lifetime.
A tear slips free before I can stop it. He sees it, and something in his face changes, darkens.
For a moment, he looks dangerous, then he exhales and leans in. He doesn’t use his hand, he brushes the tear away with his lips. The touch is soft, unexpected… too intimate to make sense.
“Ne pleure pas, ma lune,” he murmurs. Don’t cry, my moon.
He takes my hand, and I let him without thinking. He leads me away, down a narrow corridor where the noise dulls behind us. I don’t care where we’re going, only that it’s quiet.
We step into a small sitting room, with high ceilings, gilded mirrors. The door clicks shut behind us.
He turns to face me, his jaw tight, his eyes burning. “Who made you cry?” His voice is lethal. “Tell me and I’ll end them.”
I shake my head, the words caught somewhere in my throat. He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers tracing down to my jaw. The touch steals what’s left of my composure.
“You look breathtaking,” he says quietly now.
I manage a shaky smile. I don’t know what’s happening to me, or why I feel so exposed around him.
Vulnerable isn’t even the right word. I feel… safe. Like for once, I don’t have to hold everything together, because somehow he’ll make it easier just by being there.
It’s ridiculous. I hardly know him, nothing beyond his name, yet I find myself telling him about the man my father will almost certainly force me to marry.
It shouldn’t even surprise me, I’ve known it was coming since I was old enough to understand there’s no escaping it.
But saying it aloud feels different. It feels real.
The change in Arlo’s face is instant. Fury flashes through him. I honestly think he might storm out and set the entire place on fire.
He steps closer until there’s no space left between us.
His voice drops low and fierce. “I promise you this, Ophelia,” he says, brushing another tear from my cheek. “The only man you’ll ever marry in this life, will be me.”
The certainty in his tone steals the air from my lungs. It’s absurd, impossible, reckless, and yet every part of me believes him.
I force a small smile, my chest aching. “You’re mad.”
“No doubt,” he murmurs.
His hand lifts again, his thumb tracing the line of my cheek. The world outside falls away, the music, the laughter, the weight of everything I’m supposed to be.
There’s only him.
He leans in until our foreheads touch, his breath warm against my skin, and all I can think is that if he’s mad, then so am I.