Ophelia
Twelve months earlier | Elaris Isle, St. Monarché Institute.
I wake with a smile tugging at my lips, my phone still in my hand. The screen glows faintly.
Arlo: Bonjour, mon amour.
Just three words, and somehow they’re enough to make my chest feel light.
It’s been six months since that night in Paris.
Six months of messages, late night calls, and stolen meetings whenever we get the chance.
To everyone else, I’m still Ophelia Bellanti, the obedient daughter who never argues, never steps out of line. But the truth is, every rule I was born under is slowly turning to ash, and Arlo’s the reason.
No one knows about us. For obvious reasons, they can’t. My father would destroy both of us if he ever found out.
Arlo hates keeping us a secret as much as I do, but I do it out of fear—fear of what my father might do to him.
His reasons are different, ones he doesn’t share.
Whenever I ask, he only tells me to be patient, that soon we won’t have to hide anymore.
But for now, we keep it buried, our own quiet world, fragile but sacred.
We don’t see each other as often as I wish, but somehow, he always finds a way. He always appears when I least expect it.
Thinking of him makes my chest ache in the best possible way.
Last night drifts back to me.
I’d told my father I was returning to the academy a day early, but instead, I met Arlo.
He’d rented a small villa in Tuscany, a few hours from my father’s territory, hidden among the vineyards.
We had dinner, walked through the quiet lanes hand in hand, kissed more times than I can count.
It was perfect.
When we finally went back to our room, we took a bath together, then dried off and sat by the open windows, the night air warm against our skin.
That’s when he reached for a small box beside him. “This is for you,” he said, his voice lower than usual, rougher somehow. He was sitting across from me, and for once, he looked almost shy.
I smiled, curious. “What is it?”
He nudged the velvet box toward me. “Open it.”
When I did, the light caught on the stone inside, a breathtaking emerald pendant, deep green, set in white gold. My mouth parted. “Arlo, this is… this is too much.”
He shook his head immediately. “I’d say it’s not enough.”
I bit my lip, torn between awe and guilt. “I can’t accept this.”
His brows pull together, a flicker of offense crossing his face before it softens. “Why not?”
“It’s beautiful,” I said quietly. “But I don’t really wear mined stones. I usually buy lab made ones instead.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then realization hit, and he let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening.
A heartbeat later, he took the box gently from my hands, snapped it shut, and sent it flying across the room. It landed somewhere on the floor with a thud.
Before I could even react, his hands were on my face, holding me still. “I’m sorry, ma lune,” he muttered, his voice rough. “I fucked up.”
I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Stop it. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s just… one of my preferences.”
He muttered something under his breath, still holding my face. “One that I should’ve fucking known.”
Before I could say another word, his mouth was on mine, firm and possessive. The kiss stole my laughter and replaced it with heat.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
“I’ll make sure you have so many gems you’ll run out of places to wear them,” he murmured, his voice low, his breath brushing my lips. “All lab grown. From now on, part of the Vass empire will go into creating them. That’s where I’ll put my inheritance.”
I smiled, breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”
He smiled too, barely, before kissing me again, deeper this time.
His hands moved slowly, tracing the line of my spine, the curve of my waist, until words stopped mattering.
The world outside that villa disappeared—no names, no families, no rules. Just him and me, lost somewhere between want and surrender.
Last night, for the first time, I let him in. It was soft and unhurried, like he wanted to learn every inch of me by heart.
Even now, I can still feel him on my skin, the warmth of his touch, the faint ache between my thighs, the memory that refuses to fade.