Chapter 4
A blur of white shot past her.
A fox.
It startled her, its sudden movement triggering an instinctive step backwards—
Her foot slipped.
She fell.
Pain exploded through her body.
A sharp, searing agony, blooming from her abdomen and ripping through her spine.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Then—wetness.
A slow, terrifying warmth trickling down her thighs.
She barely had time to register it before Dahlia’s scream shattered the air. ‘Ophelia!’
Panic clawed at the edges of Ophelia’s mind, but she gritted her teeth and forced it down.
If she lost control now—if she let herself spiral—
She and the baby wouldn’t make it.
She sucked in a breath, swallowing back the pain. ‘Get me inside,’ she rasped. ‘Call the doctor.’
Dahlia scrambled to obey.
Ophelia’s hands trembled as she grabbed Dahlia’s wrist. ‘Send someone to find Gideon.’
Lying in bed, drowning in pain, Ophelia’s mind drifted.
She wasn’t here.
She was somewhere else.
Another winter. Another snowfall.
The first time she ever saw Gideon.
She had been at university then, sitting in a crowded lecture hall filled with bored students.
Some were on their phones, some were sleeping, some were making weekend plans.
Then—
The door opened.
A tall figure stepped in.
Gideon.
Behind him, the first snow of the season drifted down, painting the sky in soft white.
It should have been beautiful.
But in that moment, the snow didn’t matter.
Because Gideon had stolen all the attention.
He introduced himself with that cool, steady voice of his, then began taking roll.
And then—
‘Ophelia Volkov.’
She had always thought her name sounded old-fashioned, something out of a dusty history book.
But when he said it, it didn’t seem so outdated anymore.
She had never heard anyone say her name quite like that before.
Pity it had never held any warmth.
Eight years had passed since that day, three of them in marriage, of sharing a name but never a heart.
To Gideon, she was the same as she had always been.
A student.
An obligation.
Gideon was a doctor, a man who had dedicated himself to saving the world—everyone but her.
He wanted to heal the sick, ease the suffering of strangers, yet when it came to love, he was utterly indifferent.
A man without a heart.
If there is a next life, I want to be like that too.
Because a person without a heart doesn’t feel.
And a person who doesn’t feel, doesn’t hurt.
Gideon, it hurts so fucking much.
Ophelia jolted awake, breathless, her fingers clutching the thin sheets.
Another dream.
The same one.
She had been having it for as long as she could remember. The details were vague, the faces a blur, but it always ended in a room drenched in blood, a woman’s voice crying out, over and over again, ‘It hurts. It hurts so much.’
Every time, she woke up drenched in sweat.
And every time, the dream left behind nothing but confusion.
Once, she had told her older brother Julian about it.
He had listened, then given her an unimpressed look.
‘Lia, have you been reading those trashy romance novels again? Or worse—binge-watching soap operas?’ He exhaled in exasperation. ‘For fuck’s sake, keep it to yourself. If Dad hears about this, even I won’t be able to save you.’
Then, after a pause, he smirked.
‘Hang on—this woman in your dream, she’s called Ophelia too? And she’s married?’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘You sure this isn’t just your hormones acting up? Maybe you’ve got a crush on some young lord and don’t know it yet?’
Ophelia frowned. ‘What does it mean to have a crush?’
Julian blinked, then burst into laughter.
‘Oh, Lia,’ he sighed dramatically, ruffling her hair. ‘Forget I said anything. You’re still too young.’
She wouldn’t have minded the dream so much, if not for the fact that every time she had one, she fell ill.
It wasn’t just the usual shakiness after having a bad dream. It was fever, dizziness, a weakness that left her bedridden for days.
Their father, Sergei Volkov, and their mother, Anastasia, had spent years searching for answers, bringing in the best doctors money could buy.
As the High Chancellor of Valdoria and the Marquess of Rosenfeld, Lord Volkov had pulled strings and gotten the palace physicians serving at court to pay house visits. They had examined the young Lady Ophelia, their faces drawn in concern as they pored over test results.
No one had ever found a cause.
And no one had ever been able to cure her.
So, her parents worried. Constantly.
Her father juggled running the kingdom with his obsession over her health, and when he wasn’t drowning in political affairs, he was scouring the world for some miracle cure.
Just last week, he had taken a leave of absence—off on another wild goose chase after hearing some colleague mention a ‘renowned specialist’ abroad.
Ophelia thought it was ridiculous. It was just a fever. A little dizziness. A few days of rest, and she’d be fine.
But her father refused to listen.
‘Lady Ophelia, are you unwell again?’
The sleepy voice cut through the darkness.
Ophelia turned her head to see Elise, her personal maid, peering at her from the adjoining chamber, eyes heavy with sleep.
She yawned. ‘I’m fine. Just thirsty.’
What she didn’t say was that she had that dream again.
Because if Elise found out, the entire household would know within the hour.
The doctors would flood in with their cold hands and concerned faces, and worst of all, they’d prescribe more medicine.
Ophelia had spent her whole life under Elise’s watchful eye.
She was a competent maid—efficient, meticulous, and tragically incapable of keeping her mouth shut.
Still, she was fast. In under a minute, Elise was back with a glass of warm water.
Ophelia took a sip, then lay back down, exhaling softly.
Elise fussed with her blankets, tucking them in tightly. ‘Lady Ophelia, if you’re feeling unwell, you must tell me.’
Ophelia murmured something vague in response, turning onto her side.
By morning, she was burning up.
