Ophelia
It takes me a few minutes to throw on proper clothes instead of my lounge set. Meanwhile, Octavia has already torn half my closet apart and somehow managed to pack my bag in record time.
By the time I’m ready, she’s zipping it closed with a satisfied sigh.
We’re out the door within ten minutes.
Outside, a streamlined black car waits for us, the driver already holding the back door open. He takes our bags and places them in the boot before we slide into the back seat.
The vehicle pulls away from the St. Monarche? Institute grounds, the academy fading behind us as we head toward the island’s private airstrip.
Octavia catches me looking through the tinted window and smirks. “We’re taking the jet.”
“I figured,” I say.
When we board, our bags are stowed immediately, and we take our seats, Octavia across from me, already buckled in, her foot bouncing with excitement. I fasten my own belt as the engines begin their low hum.
After take-off, a flight attendant glides over to take our orders. I ask for a cappuccino with coconut milk, while Octavia requests a double espresso and a few pastries.
As the woman disappears down the aisle, I glance around the cabin, taking in the cream leather seats and varnished wood trim.
I’m not entirely convinced this is father’s jet, he has rather different tastes.
In everything.
The flight from Elaris Isle to Paris is brief, just over an hour, and passes in comfortable silence.
Octavia flips through a magazine while I watch the clouds thin, the French countryside gradually emerging below.
Once we land, another car is waiting for us on the runway. The driver greets us with a polite nod before we begin the drive into the city.
It takes us about thirty minutes, and soon we pull up outside a private villa tucked along a quiet street lined with magnolia trees.
The place is elegant, all pale limestone and tall wrought iron gates, understated, but you can tell it costs a fortune.
Inside, the air carries a faint scent of jasmine, old, distinctly French, and timeless.
I set my bag down and turn to Octavia. “Which room should I take?”
“No need to choose,” she says, waving a hand. “I already picked one for you.”
She pushes open a door to reveal a master suite, sunlight spilling over the cream curtains and a vast king sized bed.
I nod. “You really planned this.”
“Obviously.” She grins, already turning toward the hallway. “Now, do get dressed. We’re leaving shortly.”
“Leaving where?” I ask, arching a brow. “And why, exactly, are you so insufferably enthusiastic?”
“Because it’s Paris,” she says, exasperated. “We’ve an entire city to see, and I’m not wasting a second.”
“Fair enough. So what do I wear? Comfortable shoes, I assume? We’ll be walking a lot.”
She gasps. “Absolutely not. I didn’t even pack flats for you. You’re wearing heels.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “I will kill you.”
I reach for the zip on my bag, but she slaps my hand away. “No. I don’t trust you. Go and take a shower, wash your hair, do whatever you must to look…” She gives me a once over, pausing. “Better than you do now,” she finishes lamely. “I’ll choose your outfit.”
I laugh quietly but do as she says.
I take a quick shower, the hot water easing the tension from my shoulders. Wrapping a towel around my hair and another around my body, I step back into the bedroom.
Octavia is perched on the bed, typing furiously on her phone. She doesn’t notice me until I close the door, then she tosses the device aside and smiles. “Sit.”
I sit at the vanity while she gets to work on my hair. She runs a bit of oil through the strands, then blow dries it straight before combing through carefully. “We’ll do loose curls,” she decides.
When she’s done, she nods toward the bed. “All right, clothes are ready.”
I stand and look at what she’s laid out on the bed. A lingerie set, white silk, and a fitted dress in pale ivory satin.
My brows lift. “I don’t remember owning these.”
“They’re yours now,” she says. “I bought them for you. And before you start, it’s a gift.”
“Octavia…”
She gives me a pointed look. “Don’t make me remind you that your fiancé bought an entire perfume house simply so no one else could wear your scent… which, might I add, left me without one of your Christmas presents. So do let me have my moment, all right?”
I laugh. “Fine. You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
I let the towel fall and pull on the panties, the cut of the dress won’t allow for a bra, then lift it from the bed and slide it on.
The satin glides up easily, settling against my body. It draws in at the waist, following every line and curve, then eases out just enough at the hem to move when I walk.
The thin straps rest over my shoulders, the neckline dipping low. The fabric is light, almost sheer, clinging close enough to leave little to the imagination. I smooth it down over my hips and glance in the mirror.
My sister watches me from the vanity chair, one brow arched, a knowing smirk curving her lips. “You’re welcome,” she says.
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress my smile. “You’re absurd.”
“And you’re exquisite,” she counters smoothly. “Now, let me do your makeup.”
I sink back into the chair while she stands, already reaching for the brushes.
She starts with foundation, working it in. Then comes a hint of blush, just enough to bring colour to my cheeks, followed by eyeliner.
A few careful sweeps of mascara, and she finally steps back, studying my face.
“There,” she murmurs. “Ready. Just one last thing.”
She uncaps a gloss and leans in, brushing a soft sheen across my lips.
When she’s done, she pulls back and tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that makes me laugh.
“What?” I ask.
Her expression softens, and her smile grows faint. “You look beautiful,” she says quietly. “Like… really beautiful.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What’s gotten into you? You’re never emotional.”
She waves a hand at her face, her grin breaking through. “I know. Must be the hormones, my period’s due, or I’m coming down with something.”
A laugh escapes me, but before I can say anything, she suddenly claps her hands. “We’re not done yet.”
She darts toward my bag, rummages inside, and pulls out a pair of Louboutins, setting them in front of me with a triumphant smile.
“Another present?” I ask, looking up at her.
She smirks. “You’re welcome.”
I slip my feet into the heels, stand, and reach for my coat. After fastening it, I pick up the clutch Octavia laid out on the bed, tucking my essentials inside, my phone, lipstick, glucose meter, and a small tube of glucose tablets.
“I’ll be right behind you, the car’s waiting!” she calls, already halfway to her room. “Go on, give me five minutes.”
I shake my head but do as she says. Heading downstairs, I step out through the front door, the sky has started to dim. A black car waits at the curb, the driver already moving to open the door for me.
I nod politely, offering a small smile, and slide inside. Pulling out my phone, I check my messages.
Nothing from Arlo. The small pang of disappointment that follows is ridiculous, and entirely unacceptable. I ignore it, opening social media instead, scrolling aimlessly to occupy my mind.
I stop scrolling when a familiar photo fills the screen, one of me and Arlo. It’s been circulating everywhere online, from the academy gossip pages to scandal sites.
The picture was taken a few days ago, back at St. Monarche?. He looks tall, stoic, serious as ever, yet his eyes are soft, fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room. I’m laughing at something, head tilted slightly, completely unaware of the camera.
The next slide is a close up of my hand, the diamond ring gleaming in the light. It’s been reposted dozens of times, the caption threads speculating endlessly about our engagement, our history, our families.
The sound of the car door opening startles me. I look up just as the driver holds it open and Octavia slides in, her pink hair down in soft waves. I lock my phone and slip it into my clutch.
I turn to her, brow furrowing. “Why the hell are you wearing jeans while I look like I’m attending a gala?”
She smirks. “Stop complaining about everything.”
I narrow my eyes but don’t bother replying, she’s definitely up to something. And most of the time, when she’s like this, trouble follows.
The driver circles to the front, takes his seat behind the wheel, and within minutes, we’re gliding through Paris. The city unfolds around us in flashes of light and movement until, ten minutes later, we stop in front of the Eiffel Tower.
We thank the driver and take the private entrance reserved for VIP guests to go up the Tower.
“If you insist we take the stairs instead of the lift, I’ll cut you,” I warn, tilting my chin at Octavia.
She bursts out laughing. “You’re so dramatic.”
A hostess greets us at the entrance and directs us toward the lift. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about payment, but Octavia catches my expression and shakes her head.
“Already handled,” she says smoothly.
We step inside the lift, and it begins to rise. The city stretches out beneath us, Paris glowing against the dusk, a thousand lights flickering as if the whole world’s holding its breath.
When it dings and the doors slide open, I expect the viewing platform.
Instead, it’s a restaurant.
I open my mouth to speak, but Octavia nudges me forward. I take a few hesitant steps inside and turn back, just in time to see the doors closing with my sister still inside.
I narrow my eyes, suspicion rising, but a soft commotion pulls my attention. I follow the sound and turn toward the panoramic windows.
The city lies beneath me like a living painting.
And then I see him.
Arlo stands at the centre of the room, dressed in a charcoal suit. Around him, hundreds of white tulips are threaded with deep red roses, all perfectly arranged.
Behind him, a round table holds a chilled bottle of champagne and two waiting flutes.
There’s no one else.
Just him.
I freeze. I can’t move, can’t think. He’s watching me like I’m the only thing that matters.
“Ma lune,” he says, his voice low and rough.
I take a step forward, and he closes the distance between us.
His hands reach for my coat, slipping it from my shoulders with a gentleness that makes my breath catch. He sets it aside, never once breaking my gaze.
“You’re ravishing,” he murmurs, before pressing a slow kiss to my cheek.
His hand finds mine, warm and steady, and he guides me toward the centre of the room.