His Nemesis, Her Heartbreak

Ophelia’s POV:

“Ma–ma?”

The voice was fragile, barely a whisper, yet it acted like a bolt of lightning through my spine. I jolted upright, nearly knocking the stool over. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I blinked away the blurriness of exhaustion, my eyes darting to the corner of the room. This wasn't even a proper bedroom; only a cot and a few shelves in a carpeted white room where Raymond allowed me to sleep with our daughter on the "occasions" he deemed me too irritating to be in the master bedroom.

The only light in the room came from a single lamp perched on the edge of what I was forced to call a "desk." It was, in reality, nothing more than a rickety wooden stool and a makeshift side table I had scavenged from the attic. My neck ached from where I had been dozing off over stacks of paperwork.

I had begged him for a proper desk, a place to manage the freelance translations I did to keep a few secret pennies in my pocket. But to Raymond, every request was an act of war. To him, my presence here was already an act of charity.

“You’re an Omega, Ophelia,” he would sneer. “Be grateful for all that I provide you with.”

I scrambled off the stool, my legs stiff and cramping, and hurried to the small cot. I fell to my knees, my hands trembling as I reached out to touch her forehead.

“Mom’s here, love. I’m right here,” I whispered, my voice filled with a terror I couldn't hide.

The moment my skin met hers, my heart dropped. She was burning up.

It had been three days since the fever started. It had begun as a light flush, a seasonal sniffle I thought I could manage. But it was stubborn, refusing to break despite the medicines the doctor had prescribed. I had spent the last seventy-two hours regulating her temperature as best I could. 

In the past whenever this happened, by the third day her fever usually subsided.

But this... this was different.

“Oh God. Ria, baby, look at me,” I urged.

Her eyes remained lidded, her long lashes casting ghostly shadows against her deathly pale cheeks. My mind raced, spiraling into a dark place. She was already so fragile. Because of her constitution she hadn't even learned to walk properly, though she had celebrated her third birthday five months ago. She was brilliant, her mind sharp and observant, but her body was too weak.

The doctor’s words echoed in my mind once again. “It’s a conflict of blood, Madam. Raymond’s Dominant Alpha genes are fighting against your Omega markers. It’s an extremely rare case. She will likely recover if she reaches puberty and shifts, but until then...”

Until then, she was a glass doll in a house made of hammers. And it was my fault. Everything bad that happened to her felt like a direct consequence of my existence, a punishment for my sins. This was my karma.

“I’m cold,” Ria whispered. The words were barely a breath, but they chilled me more than the winter air.

I grabbed her tiny hands, expecting heat, but I found them ice-cold. My breath hitched. I pulled back the blanket, and the dim lamplight revealed her fingertips were turning a bruised shade of blue. Cyanosis.

“Ria!” I gasped, the sound torn from my throat.

Panic flooded me. I didn't think. I didn't plan. I scooped her up, cradling her small, limp weight against my shoulder. I wrapped the thickest blanket around her to preserve what little warmth she had left.

I was in my nightdress, my hair probably a bird’s nest, and my feet covered in socks, but I didn't care. I threw the door open and sprinted down the dimly lit corridor. My destination was the master bedroom. 

I burst into the room, my chest heaving. “Raymond! Raymond, we have to go!”

I stopped dead. The bed was perfectly made, the silk sheets undisturbed and cold. My brows furrowed as I scanned the room. It was three in the morning. Had he stayed at the office? No, he’d finished his meetings hours ago.

Ria let out a tiny, wet gasp against my neck, her body shivering with a violent tremor. I couldn't wait. I turned on my heel and flew back out, my feet slapping against the marble of the stairs. If he wasn't in the bedroom, he was in his home office on the first floor. He had to be.

I ran down the stairs and made my way through the corridors. As I neared the heavy mahogany doors of his office, a figure stepped out from the shadow, blocking my path.

“Madam!”

It was Zoe. She stood in front of the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. Her eyes were wide, darting between me and the office door with a look of pure dread.

“I need to see Raymond, Zoe. Move,” I said, my voice rising as I pleaded. I tried to sidestep her, but she moved with me, barring the way.

“Madam, please. The master was very clear. He is in a private meeting. He made it explicit that no one—under any circumstances—is allowed to enter. I will be punished if you go in there. Please, go back upstairs.”

“I don’t care about the meeting, Zoe!” My hands were shaking so hard I could barely keep my grip on Ria. “Ria is in danger. Look at her! She’s blue, Zoe! I need to take her to the hospital. I have to speak to Raymond!”

I tried to push past her, my shoulder glancing off hers, but Zoe grabbed my arm. She was a beta and her grip was firm.

“No, Madam, I can’t let you—”

Something snapped.

For years, I had played the role of the submissive Omega. I had allowed my skills to atrophy, my spirit to be crushed under the weight of Raymond’s boots. But as I felt Ria’s shallow, rattling breath against my skin, the woman I used to be—the woman who knew how to survive—reared her head.

I didn't think about the mechanics of it. I acted.

I pulled my arm back with a violent, whipping motion, breaking her grip. Before she could recover, I pivoted, my bare foot striking her ankle with a sickening crack. As she stumbled, I drove my elbow upward, buried it deep into her ribcage.

The air left Zoe in a sharp wheeze. It was astonishing, really. How easy it was. How quickly the muscle memory returned when the stakes were life and death. I had spent so long pretending I was helpless that I had almost convinced myself it was true.

I didn't give her a second glance as she tumbled backward, her spine hitting the console table with a heavy thud. A vase rattled, and she let out a choked cry of pain.

“I’m sorry, Zoe,” I whispered, though I didn't feel sorry. I felt nothing but a singular, burning purpose.

I lunged for the office doors, throwing my weight against them. They swung open revealing the cavernous, wood-paneled room within.

The air inside was thick, smelling of expensive bourbon, burnt tobacco, and the heavy, musky scent of an Alpha in heat. I froze. My head swung around, my eyes landing on a sight that turned the last remaining fragment of my heart into jagged shards of ice.

Raymond was there. 

He was in his executive leather chair, his white dress shirt discarded on the floor like a piece of trash. And seated on his lap was a familiar woman, half-naked with her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders and her head thrown back in a scream of ecstasy.

It felt like a hot iron being branded into my chest as I realized just what I had walked into.

“Ray....mond?” I whispered. The name tasted like ash.

I stood there, clutching my dying daughter to my chest, staring at the man who was supposed to be my husband, my mate, my protector and realized that the heartbreak hadn't even truly begun yet.