Chapter 6
The doorman bowed before stepping aside, a silent acknowledgement of who Ophelia was.
She waved off her bodyguards at the entrance and stepped inside with Elise.
The air was thick with music. Dim lighting bathed the space in deep ambers and moody blues, velvet-upholstered booths offering both luxury and secrecy.
Above, crystal chandeliers dripped elegance, a sharp contrast to the sleek, contemporary stage below.
Old-world grandeur met underground rebellion.
A band played avant-garde jazz, but Ophelia didn’t pause to listen.
She knew exactly where she was going.
Navigating Nocturne was second nature, like walking through her own garden.
She bypassed the first floor entirely, heading straight for Lucian’s private suite on the top floor.
And that’s when Celeste D’Arcy—Nocturne’s manager, a woman in her early thirties who had known Ophelia for years—suddenly appeared in her path.
‘Lady Ophelia.’ Celeste’s smile was polite, but there was a tightness to it. ‘Lucian already has a guest tonight.’
Ophelia’s brow arched.
Viktor was under house arrest.
So who the hell was important enough to keep Lucian from seeing anyone else?
‘The more, the merrier,’ she said smoothly, stepping past Celeste toward the stairs.
Celeste quickly moved to block her path, voice dropping into a hushed, urgent whisper.
‘Lady Ophelia, he was very clear. He’s only seeing this one guest tonight.’
Something flickered in Ophelia’s gaze—a sharpness.
Oh?
Now she was intrigued.
Celeste must have seen it, because her expression turned downright pleading. ‘Lady Ophelia, please. Lucian said he met a kindred spirit this morning—’
Ophelia’s steps halted.
Kindred spirit?
Her interest flared to life.
If Lucian thought someone was worth his time, that meant one thing—
They were a musician.
And that, Ophelia had to see for herself.
Ignoring Celeste’s protests, she strode past her and pushed open the door to Lucian’s suite.
The moment it swung wide—
The music stopped.
Her sharp gaze swept across the room.
The ushers who recognised her scrambled to their feet, bowing respectfully.
Lucian sighed, giving her a resigned smile before rising to greet her. ‘Lady Ophelia.’
She barely acknowledged the pleasantry. ‘Where is this kindred spirit of yours? I want to meet them.’
Lucian stepped aside, revealing a man dressed in a crisp white shirt, his back turned to her as he sat at the piano.
Even from behind, with the way he carried himself—elegant, poised—Ophelia could tell he was devastatingly handsome.
Before the mystery man could turn around, Elise came rushing in, breathless.
She leaned close and murmured urgently, ‘Lady Ophelia, Lord Sergei’s motorcade just entered the city.’
Ophelia flinched.
Shit. Her father was back early.
If he found out she’d snuck out—and worse, that she’d gone to Nocturne of all places—she’d be in for it.
No time to admire the mysterious pianist now.
Spinning on her heel, she bolted out of the club, jumped into her car, and barked at the driver, ‘Drive. Now.’
Ophelia arrived at Château de Volkov in a flurry of breathless panic.
Greta was waiting for her in the bedroom, clutching her chest like she’d just survived a near-death experience.
‘Thank heavens,’ she muttered before immediately getting to work, plucking the pins and jewels from Ophelia’s hair with practised efficiency.
Elise, meanwhile, was tearing through the wardrobe like a woman possessed.
‘Pick something formal, something bright,’ Greta instructed. ‘Lord Sergei’s already here, and apparently, he’s brought back some highly esteemed doctor. Lady Ophelia, you’ll need to present yourself shortly.’
Ophelia coughed, her throat feeling scratchier by the second.
Hearing her cough, Elise nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘Oh no, Lady Ophelia! The medicine you ordered has already arrived—I’ll go fetch it! Greta, help her change.’
Greta clicked her tongue, hands fussing over the buttons of Ophelia’s dress. ‘Why on earth were you running around town while sick? If you hadn’t made it back in time, you’d be locked up just like Crown Prince Viktor.’
Ophelia scoffed. ‘Like hell I will.’
But deep down, she exhaled in relief.
She’d made it back just in time.
But as Greta helped her get dressed, and Elise bustled about fetching medicine, Ophelia couldn’t shake the disappointment gnawing at her.
That man at the piano—she hadn’t even seen his face.
Half an hour later, a servant arrived with a summons. ‘Lady Ophelia, Lord Sergei requests your presence in the hall. A distinguished guest has arrived.’
She already knew what this was about.
Greta had mentioned it earlier—her father had brought in some renowned foreign physician.
Not that she held out much hope.
Over the years, she’d seen more so-called miracle doctors than she could count.
Every single one had been useless.
Her throat itched. She coughed.
Elise, always prepared, handed her a cup of warm honey water.
She took a sip, the sweetness easing the rawness in her throat, then stepped towards the grand hall.
At the entrance, the servant went in to announce her arrival.
The Château de Volkov’s great hall was a breathtaking blend of neoclassical grandeur and baroque opulence.
Towering columns framed the entrance, their fluted surfaces rising towards an ornately carved ceiling.
The entire façade, built from pale sandstone, gleamed under the Valdorian sun, with accents of gold leaf catching the light along the window frames and archways.
Inside, a chandelier of hand-cut crystal bathed the room in a soft, golden glow, reflecting off the polished marble floors.
Ophelia barely glanced at the décor.
She was more interested in getting a look at this so-called genius doctor—ready to dismiss him as just another pretentious academic who knew more about writing research papers than actual medicine.
Before she could scan the room properly, her father’s voice cut through the air. ‘Lia,’ Lord Sergei said warmly, his sharp blue eyes softening as they settled on her. ‘This time, I’ve found you a real physician. Not only is he a master of his craft, but he’s also an accomplished scholar.’
He stroked his neatly trimmed beard, smiling. ‘He speaks multiple languages, rides horses, and possesses many other refined skills. In fact, I’ve decided—he’ll also be your tutor.’
Ophelia blinked.
From behind their father, Julian Volkov shot her a look, eyebrows waggling in silent amusement.
Tutor?
What happened to treating her illness?
