Chapter 5: Ophelia's POV

I picked up everything I needed and headed back to school. The weekend came quickly, and once again I found myself making the trip back to Hayes Manor. But something was different this time — that sticky, crawling sensation of being watched was gone. No shadow trailing me. No presence hovering just out of sight.

I found that almost disappointing. Had the lunatic given up, or simply gotten better at hiding?

I pushed open the front door of Hayes Manor.

"One month." Sylvia's voice carried from the living room, shrill and unraveling at the edges. "You get rid of that little bitch within one month."

Arthur sounded impatient. "Several investors have been complimenting her looks lately. She just got back, and now we've got this snake nonsense making the house look cursed. Take her to the dinner tomorrow. Introduce her to Richard — that old man has always had a taste for the young ones. You make sure she's presentable and knows how to behave. Don't screw this up for me."

He was already walking away as he said it, briefcase in hand, taking the stairs two at a time. He passed through the entryway, threw me a single cold glance, and said, "Learn from her," before disappearing around the corner.

I lowered my eyes and walked into the living room.

Sylvia stood in front of the fireplace, a black riding crop held loosely in one hand. Behind her stood Greg — her distant cousin, broad-shouldered and built like someone who had once needed to be.

"Scared now, are we?" She moved toward me slowly, her expression flat, her eyes carrying the particular hatred of someone who wants to watch something break. "You had plenty to say the other night. Go ahead. Say it again."

I drew my shoulders inward and let myself stumble half a step back, as if her presence alone had knocked the ground from under me.

"Sylvia," I said, my voice thin and trembling, "what did I say? How could I ever dare speak against you?"

Sylvia let out a laugh that had no humor in it. "You're going to stand there and pretend?"

I turned my eyes toward Greg, letting the plea show plainly on my face.

"I don't understand what's happening," I said. "Sylvia, there must be some misunderstanding. Whatever I did wrong — please tell me. I'll fix it. I'll do anything."

I bit down hard on my lower lip. Tears filled my eyes but didn't fall, trembling at the edge.

Greg's posture shifted almost imperceptibly.

"Stop performing and get on your knees!"

Sylvia brought the riding crop down in a hard, sweeping arc — I lurched backward with a cry and wedged myself into the corner behind the sofa. The crop cracked against the armrest instead of me.

"Greg! Are you blind? Drag her out here!"

Greg didn't move. He frowned and looked at Sylvia. "Could there be a misunderstanding? She's just a young girl—"

"Idiot." Sylvia turned on him with a pointed finger and a voice that could strip paint. "This little bitch called me a dog to my face, and now she cries two tears and you're ready to believe her over me? Get your priorities straight. You were running with street thugs in the lower district before I took you in. You'd better remember who you answer to."

Greg's jaw tightened. His face went dark. But he didn't argue.

I curled deeper into the shadow behind the sofa, arms locked around my knees, and let myself come apart.

"Sylvia, why are you doing this to me?" My voice broke on every other word. "I grew up without a mother. No one ever cared about me — and I thought I finally had a home. I have never once been disrespectful to you. Not once." I was shaking hard enough that it didn't require any performance. "There's no one else here right now. If you need to hit someone to feel better, then hit me. I just — please. Don't invent reasons."

I closed my eyes. My body felt like it might collapse inward.

For one unguarded moment, I saw something shift in Sylvia's face — anger tangled with something close to confusion, even doubt. She had heard what she had heard that night. But looking at me now, she couldn't entirely stop herself from wondering whether her mind had manufactured it.

Greg stepped forward. "Ma'am — let it go. If she's marked up, the mister won't be able to bring her to the dinner tomorrow."

"Don't tell me what to do."

Whatever restraint Sylvia had left dissolved. She shoved Greg aside, crossed the room in three strides, and wrenched my wrist hard enough to haul me out from behind the sofa.

I hit the marble floor. The cold of it went straight through me, and a wide patch of red bloomed across my forearm where it scraped the edge.

Sylvia raised the crop again, aimed at my face —

"What the hell are you doing?"

The front door hit the wall. A gust of night air rushed in with it. A hand shot out and seized Sylvia's wrist in midair.

"Hitting her for no reason — are you out of your mind?"

Lucas stared at his mother. In his other hand, his phone screen was still lit. Visible on it was the message I had sent him ten minutes ago.

I want to apologize to Sylvia, but I'm afraid she's still angry with me. Lucas, could you come home? I'm sorry — you're the only one I can turn to in this house. Don't worry if you're busy. Thank you.

He had had plans. He canceled them.

He had not expected to walk through the door and hear my tear-strained voice, or his mother shrieking like something feral.

"Lucas?" Sylvia stared at her own son as though he were a stranger.

Lucas released her wrist and dropped to one knee beside me, pulling me upright. I leaned into him and lifted my forearm so he could see the damage clearly — the raw, reddened scrape vivid under the light.

He stood. He put himself between me and Sylvia with the instinct of something territorial.

"I didn't think you were capable of this." His voice was controlled in the way that means it won't be for long. "She came back wanting to apologize to you, and you were going to destroy her face? She has nothing, and you can't even leave her that?"

Sylvia's whole body was shaking. Her mouth opened and closed.

And in that moment, from behind Lucas's shoulder, I let exactly half my face appear. Tears still on my cheeks. Eyes no longer frightened at all. I let the corner of my mouth curve — slow, deliberate, and cold.

Look at you.

Sylvia's eyes went wide. Then she came apart entirely.

"I'll kill you —"

She swung. The crop came over Lucas's shoulder without aim or calculation.

"Sylvia, stop — hit me instead!" I cried out, and grabbed a fistful of Lucas's shirt, and pulled him forward just enough.

The crop landed square across his shoulder.

Lucas sucked air through his teeth.

I threw myself against him, hands fluttering over the spot. "Oh God — does it hurt? Lucas, move back, let me—"

Sylvia had gone the color of ash.

"You're all blind! Lucas, turn around — look at her face just now — look at what she was doing—"

Lucas turned. He saw my tears, my horror, my guilt. He turned back.

"Stop this." He pushed her. Not hard — but enough. Sylvia stumbled, and Greg caught her by the arm.

"You pushed me. For her. Your own mother—"

"If I hadn't, you'd have beaten her unconscious." His voice was flat now, the anger gone cold. "Nobody in this house treats her like she's a person. I'm not going to stand here and watch." He reached back, closed his hand around my wrist, and walked.

I heard the flower vase shatter behind us. I heard Sylvia's voice climb registers that shouldn't have been possible.

I kept pace with Lucas through the front door and into the dark outside, taking short quick steps to match his longer ones. The night air hit my face. I sank my teeth into my lower lip and held on until the urge to laugh passed.

Interesting.

Now she knew exactly how it felt.

"Where are we going?" I tugged lightly at his sleeve, keeping my voice small.

Lucas's chest was still heaving. He looked like someone running on adrenaline and righteousness in equal measure.

"Night City. Best underground club in the city. You just got back — let me show you around. I'll introduce you to my friends."

I widened my eyes. Behind them, nothing moved at all.

"Really? That sounds wonderful."