Chapter 3

OPHELIA

I ignored the stares from the guests and scanned the room for Charlotte. She was really going to explain to me why he was here.

I didn’t need to walk far. She was standing at a table, chatting with one of the guests. I slipped on a fake smile and approached.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said smoothly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to borrow her for a quick moment.”

They smiled and nodded, and with that, I grabbed Charlotte gently by the arm and pulled her away. Once we were far enough from prying eyes and ears, my smile dropped, and a cold look took over my features.

“How did he get into this place?” I hissed.

“I—I don’t know, Ophelia,” she stammered. “I swear, I’ll get to the bottom of it. I have no idea how he got past security or even an invitation. I’m so sorry.”

Charlotte was visibly shaken, fidgeting with her clutch. My anger dulled, just a little.

I sighed. “Just find out who let him in as well as who he came with,” I muttered. “We can’t have uninvited guests walking in and out of this place like it’s a damn train station.”

She nodded quickly. “I’ll get on it right away,” she said with a tight smile before hurrying off.

I let out another sigh as I watched her disappear into the crowd. I hadn’t meant to snap at her. Or maybe I had. Either way, I wasn’t okay. Not after seeing him. Not after feeling him.

Trying to shake it off, I resumed mingling with the guests. The rest of the evening blurred into a carousel of practiced smiles, empty laughter, and champagne flutes raised in orchestrated toasts. My body moved like a well-oiled machine, every motion calculated, every reaction rehearsed.

But every breath felt like a war. Every corner of the ballroom felt haunted by him. Every time I passed near the grand staircase, I forced myself not to look up. Yet I could feel him, like static in the air, like the shadow that comes just before a lightning strike. The fact he was here was enough to rattle my already frazzled nerves.

I was Ophelia Wren, goddamnit. This was my world, and I refused to let anyone—least of all him—pull me under.

I put on a smile on my face and carried on with the ball. I was just about to give the closing speech when the sharp crash of glass broke the rhythm of the room.

I turned, expecting to see a clumsy waiter. But instead, a man in a navy tuxedo was crumpled on the floor, his arms twitching before falling still.

The room froze and everyone held their breath as a thousand eyes turned to him.

I was at his side before the murmurs even began, not caring that my dress hiked up inelegantly as I knelt beside him. He was older, maybe in his forties. He had graying hair, and a refined face and was probably someone important. His lips were tinged blue and his jaw was slack.

I pressed two fingers to his carotid and luckily, there was a pulse. But it was weak and thready.

Panic rippled through the air like perfume.

“Call 911. Now,” I barked.

I was tilting his head, checking for obstructions when someone suddenly nudged me aside.

“What the—” I started, and then froze.

Alessandre.

He dropped to his knees beside the man and began chest compressions with steady, practiced force.

One. Two. Three.

The man’s chest rose and fell under his hands, but there was no sign of life yet. I crouched beside him, momentarily stunned.

Then Alessandre’s eyes snapped to mine.

“Get the ambulance. Now,” he ordered, voice sharp, focused.

I staggered to my feet and did as he said, even though my mind spiraled. I couldn’t believe someone had collapsed—here, at my event. And even worse, that he, Alessandre, had just saved the day.

Moments later, sirens wailed outside, and paramedics burst into the hall. The man was stretchered away under flashing lights and hurried commands. 

After they’d taken him away, one of the paramedics clapped Alessandre on the shoulder.

“You did well, young man,” the older paramedic said. “Any later and that man would have been gone.”

“It wasn’t all me,” Alessandre said. “Miss Wren, here was the one that came to the scene quickly.”

“Well,” he said. “Both of you did well today. Well done.” And with that he jumped into the back of the ambulance and left.

My heart pounded in my chest rapidly. I felt disoriented and cold, still shaken by what had just transpired here.

“Are you okay?”

His voice.

God.

I turned slowly and looked at him—really looked at him. The warm tan of his skin, those storm-gray eyes I once drowned in, the soft waves of his hair I used to lose my fingers in.

And something cracked in my chest, something too dangerous to embrace.

I turned away before it could break free and I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. Because that question was too loaded.

I walked off without a word, ignoring everyone and everything.

Charlotte caught up to me and placed a hand gently on my shoulder.

“Should we end this?” she asked, her voice low.

I hesitated, my eyes sweeping the ballroom. This event had been planned to polish my image, to remind the world that I was fine. That I was in control.

But I wasn’t. Not entirely.

Still, I straightened.

“No,” I said finally. “No, it’ll continue.”

She gave a soft nod and stepped back.

I ascended the podium, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Dozens of faces looked up at me, still shaken from the scene, unsure of what to expect.

“I’m very sorry for what just happened,” I began, my voice clear despite the roaring in my chest. “But please rest assured, everything is under control.”

The crowd murmured its approval. I continued the speech, going through the motions like a pro. My words flowed and my gestures were elegant. I smiled where I should and thanked who I needed to.

All while feeling his eyes on me.

All while remembering the way it felt to be in his arms again.

I didn’t look at him once more. I refused to.

And when the applause came, loud and warm, I forced myself to smile.

Because that was what they needed to see. But behind the mask, beneath the designer gown and cold exterior, the truth was simple. Quiet, really.

And it echoed like a scream in my chest:

I’m not okay.