Arlo
When we return, everyone is already waiting.
Ophelia enters first, her back straight, chin lifted, every inch the poised daughter of a Bellanti.
I fall into step behind her, my hand settling lightly at the small of her back. It’s a simple gesture, almost nothing at all, yet it feels perilously good, like reclaiming a part of myself I’ve been starved of for far too long.
She doesn’t know that I never really left the hospital that day. She thought I walked away.
I didn’t.
There isn’t a force on earth that could have made me leave her, not when she was lying there, pale and fragile after surgery.
I remained in that hospital for as long as she did. I had a live feed from her room streamed straight to my phone and watched from the end of the corridor.
I made certain the nurses attended to her every need, even the smallest things.
The only time I allowed myself near her was when she slept. Then I would slip inside, sit beside her bed, and let my fingers trace the outline of her hand.
And I’d leave the moment she began to stir.
Because she’d asked me to.
And I had to respect that, even when it felt like carving out my own lungs just to do it.
Now she’s here, standing in front of me, so achingly alive it almost hurts to look at her.
Her father, Luigi, casts her a look from across the room, but the moment his eyes find me standing behind her, his expression shifts.
He clears his throat. “Now that the happy couple has deigned to join us, shall we sit down to dinner?”
Ophelia simply inclines her head.
We take our seats. I pull out her chair, guiding her in before taking my place beside her. It’s expected, given the engagement, but for me it’s more than courtesy, it’s instinct.
She belongs at my side.
Dinner unfolds smoothly. Her father tries to send her warning looks across the table, but one glance from me is enough to silence him.
The rest of the evening passes almost pleasantly. Even Lucinda seems lighter somehow, freed for once from her husband’s shadow.
My father sits on my other side.
We’ve somehow mended what was broken between us.
That day in the hospital, we talked. And after that, he began visiting Ophelia. We spoke about everything, my twin, my mother, all the things we’d spent years avoiding.
It wasn’t easy.
He was furious that I ever believed he blamed me for my mother’s death. As it turns out, he’d only hardened himself because he was terrified of failing as a single parent.
We all have our demons, I suppose.
I spent years blaming myself for her, and for him. For my twin. After she died, he was left without anyone to guide him, and somehow I decided that was my fault too.
In my head, I’d taken his mother from him. I thought he became what he did because of me. So I spent years trying to protect him, to justify every damn thing he did.
But we untangled it all.
And now, for the first time in years, I feel… ready.
Ready for what’s next.
Ready for my woman, and for the life that’s waiting for us.
I look at Ophelia.
She avoids my eyes, and I don’t push her. I promised to give her space, and turning up here today, sliding a ring onto her finger, probably isn’t her idea of that. But I’m trying. So, for now, I let her have it.
Or the idea of having it.
The courses pass quickly and uneventfully. Conversation drifts between business, holidays, the usual polite nonsense.
I can feel Ophelia watching me when she thinks I don’t notice, and it’s enough to almost pull a smile from me.
When the evening finally winds down, I catch myself wishing I could simply take her with me, walk her out of this gilded cage and into somewhere I can breathe again.
I want her beside me when I sleep, when I wake. Every night and every morning.
But not yet.
She needs time. And I need to earn it.
Kidnapping her probably wouldn’t count as remorse in her eyes, so I settle for patience, a virtue I’ve never possessed.
My father shakes hands with Luigi, exchanging false pleasantries that make my jaw tighten. When my turn comes, I skip the man entirely. I owe him nothing.
Lucinda steps forward. I start to offer my hand, but she ignores it and pulls me straight into a hug.
For a second, I go still, then I let her. She’s warm, and her arms tremble a little. Something tightens in my chest, something I don’t have a name for. She gives me one last squeeze before stepping back, her eyes shining.
When I glance around, Ophelia’s watching me.
I take a slow step towards her, then another, until there’s barely a breath between us. We don’t look away from each other.
I reach up and brush a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers grazing her soft skin. The noise around us fades, and it’s just her and me, caught in the same quiet pull.
“I’ll see you soon, ma lune,” I whisper, low enough for only her to hear.
I press a kiss to her cheek, but it still feels like fire under my lips.
She gives a small nod.
I catch sight of the ring on her finger, gleaming under the chandelier.
My ring.
Possession and pride surge through me, deeply satisfying. I can’t help the faint smirk when she catches where my gaze has landed and answers it with a small scowl.
Every instinct in me wants to kiss her, to taste those full, soft lips. But against every pull of my body, I force myself to look at her one last time before turning away and stepping out into the cold night air.
The urge to look back is almost unbearable, but I don’t.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I’ll go back inside, lift her over my shoulder, and take her with me.
Soon, we’ll be back at St. Monarche?, and the space I promised her will come to an end.
For now, she’s safe here and untouchable.
Untouchably mine.
Let her think, let her breathe.
Because once term begins again, there’ll be no more distance.
Only us.
And before this year is over, she won’t just wear my ring, she’ll carry my name.