Chapter 5
Ophelia’s head throbbed, her throat felt raw, and she knew—without a doubt—exactly what was wrong.
She had been sick too many times to not recognise the symptoms.
Ophelia grabbed her tablet and scribbled down a prescription.
‘Elise,’ she called, stretching lazily, ‘go fetch these meds.’
Elise took the tablet, glancing at the list with clear scepticism.
Ophelia sighed. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask one of the doctors.’
Elise hesitated, then gave a quick bow. ‘Yes, Lady Ophelia. I’ll be back soon.’
Once Elise was gone, Ophelia rang for the other maids to help her wash and dress.
Greta Voller, her wardrobe mistress, hovered at her side, holding up an array of dresses. ‘What would you like to wear today, my lady?’
Ophelia paused.
Her father and brother were due back soon.
And once they returned, she’d be stuck at home under lock and key.
Which meant she needed to go out.
Now.
There were few things in life that Ophelia truly cared about, but music—music was everything.
And in all of Rosenfeld, no one played quite like Lucian Drexler, the pianist of Nocturne.
Her father never understood it. Sergei Volkov had spent years trying to convince her to attend performances at The Marquess Club—a members-only music salon for nobility—or The Lyrien Conservatory’s Private Salon, where only the most distinguished musicians played for an invitation-only audience.
But Ophelia didn’t want polished perfection in gilded halls.
She wanted something raw. Something real.
And that meant places her father would consider ‘beneath her.’
Nocturne was one of them.
A smoky, dimly lit music lounge where the elite mixed with the avant-garde, where genre-bending performances blurred the lines between classical and modern.
It was exactly the kind of place Sergei would hate—and exactly why Ophelia loved it.
Lucian Drexler was the crown jewel of Nocturne.
He was everything her father loathed. Tattooed, reckless, a rogue with a reputation for seducing noblewomen looking to rebel in the shape of a man.
No one knew exactly where he came from, though whispers claimed he was the bastard son of a nobleman.
He played in rolled-up sleeves, fingers moving like sin across the keys, playing like he’d sold his soul to the music itself.
Sergei would have had a stroke if he knew how many times Ophelia had snuck out to watch him.
But lately, Lucian had been impossible to find.
Ever since Crown Prince Viktor von Solberg had taken an interest in him, the pianist had been spending more time performing at Viktor’s Keep—a palatial residence Viktor had rebelliously renamed, much to his father’s dismay.
The prince’s patronage meant Lucian had all but vanished from Nocturne.
Lucky for her, Viktor had recently fucked up.
Whatever he’d done, it had been bad enough that King Alaric had sentenced him to a two-week house arrest—no visitors, no parties, no distractions.
Which meant no private concerts.
Which meant today—Lucian would be at Nocturne.
‘Lady Ophelia, which dress would you like?’ Greta asked again, her fingers skimming over the selection. ‘Perhaps something lively? Seraphina mentioned that Lady Anastasia received a call from Lord Sergei last night. He may return to Rosenfeld tonight.’
Seraphina, her mother’s head maid, wouldn’t have said that unless she had solid information.
Which meant her father and brother would be home in a matter of hours.
Which meant this was her last chance to get out before she was grounded indefinitely.
Ophelia straightened. ‘That one,’ she said, pointing to a tailored midnight-blue dress. Then, flicking her wrist impatiently, she added, ‘Quick, do my hair—I’m going out.’
‘Where to?’
‘A nightclub.’
Nocturne was a music lounge, but Ophelia liked the idea of a nightclub. It made her feel modern.
Greta’s hand visibly trembled. The ivory comb in her fingers slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the floor. ‘L-Lady Ophelia…?’
Ophelia narrowed her eyes. ‘Tell my mother, and I’ll have your hide.’
Greta bent down, retrieving the comb with a perfectly composed expression. ‘Of course, Lady Ophelia.’
Smart girl.
Ophelia sighed.
Honestly, she wasn’t very good at being terrifying. Château de Volkov had a massive staff, but there were very few people who actually feared her. Maybe she really was too soft.
By the time she was dressed and ready, she took one last look in the mirror.
Her reflection stared back—a porcelain face, dark eyes smudged with defiance, her lips painted the shade of quiet rebellion.
She reached for her oversized Tom Ford sunglasses and slid them on.
The dark lenses wouldn’t help her blend in.
But they’d at least reduce the chances of getting recognised—or worse, photographed—on the streets.
Satisfied, she slipped out through one of Château de Volkov’s side entrances, her security detail trailing behind.
Somewhere along the way, her personal maid, Elise, joined her—though calling Elise a maid was a stretch.
She was more like Ophelia’s accomplice, always ready to escape the castle at a moment’s notice.
Elise practically vibrated with excitement when she learned they were heading to Nocturne to see Lucian Drexler.
Still, she worried. Just a little. ‘What if Lady Anastasia finds out?’
Ophelia was confident. ‘She won’t.’
For music, Ophelia feared nothing.
And if that music came from a man with obscene amounts of talent and a face to match, even better.
If Crown Prince Viktor hadn’t claimed Lucian first, she would have invited him for a private performance herself.
The thought made her itch to move faster, her strides lengthening.
Lucian was waiting.
Nocturne.
Tucked away in Rosenfeld’s historic district, the venue was a converted 19th-century theatre, once home to grand operas, now reborn as an underground music lounge where nobility and the artistic elite converged.
Entry was strictly invitation-only—but titles came with perks, and the younger aristocrats always found their way in.
The guest list was meticulously curated, featuring royals, virtuosos, avant-garde artists, and the occasional ambitious commoner with the right connections.
Ophelia had no invitation, but then, she didn’t need one.
