Ophelia stood frozen, the air heavy around her, thick like syrup clinging to her skin.
Lysander's room was breathtaking in a way that unsettled her.
The ceiling arched high above, supported by black marble pillars veined with silver—like frozen lightning trapped in stone. Heavy velvet drapes cloaked the tall windows, dyed in deep crimson and midnight blue, casting the room in a twilight gloom, even though the sun still burned high outside. A grand fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle carved with intricate symbols she didn't recognize—runes, perhaps, or spells woven into stone itself.
The bed was massive, forged from blackened wood twisted into haunting shapes: dragons, thorns, wings unfurling in silent screams. Thick furs and silken sheets the color of spilled ink clothed it. Near it, an antique writing desk was littered with neat stacks of parchment and a bottle of dark red wine.
Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their contents locked behind glass—ancient tomes, strange artifacts, things that whispered of forgotten power. There was a scent to the place: burning cedar, old leather, and something darker, older... a scent that curled under her skin.
It was beautiful.
And it was magnificent.
A place built for a king.
Lysander said nothing. He simply removed his gloves with careful precision, placing them neatly on the edge of the desk—as if the presence of another soul in his room meant nothing to him.
"Come inside," he said at last, his voice low and irrefutable.
Ophelia hesitated, her instincts screaming to run, but she forced her feet to move. She stepped inside, her bare feet whispering against the polished floor. Her wide eyes drank in every strange, magnificent detail.
"You'll get a crick in your neck if you keep staring like that," Lysander said, a faint, mocking smile brushing his lips.
Before she could answer, a knock interrupted.
"Lord Lysander," came a muffled voice from beyond the door, "Sir Cassius is here to see you."
Lysander gave a short sigh.
"Alright. I'll join him in a minute," he replied.
He turned his gaze back to Ophelia.
"Don't even think of running" he said, his tone commanding, no argument.
Ophelia froze as he past her, letting out a low chuckle under his breath— She didn't dare move until the door clicked shut behind him.
Downstairs, Cassius lounged on a velvet settee, a glass of amber liquor in his hand, swirling the contents absently as he waited. He rose as Lysander entered, setting the glass aside.
"You're late," Cassius said, grinning. "I was starting to think you were hiding."
Lysander arched a brow. "From you?."
They clasped forearms briefly, the greeting of old comrades.
"I heard an interesting rumor," Cassius said, dropping back into his seat. "Word around the city is that you bought yourself a female slave. Tell me, Lysander—since when did you develop a taste for rescuing damsels?"
Lysander poured himself a drink but didn't sit immediately.
"Recently."
"She's not just rescued," he said calmly.
"She belongs to me now."
Cassius lifted a brow, intrigued. "What's with the explanation and elaboration? ".
Lysander dropped the drink, then set the glass down with a decisive clink.
"Anyway I found some information about the girl at the gala." he continued.
The girl—Ophelia, I believe her name is—used to work as a servant under Lord Alex."
At that, something flickered across Lysander's face. Cassius caught it, but wisely said nothing.
"Blackthorne Heights," Cassius continued, "you know the place. A nest of snakes if there ever was one. From what my informants gathered, Alex treated her poorly. Very poorly."
"Poorly," Lysander repeated, voice like iron, "is a delicate way of putting it."
Cassius gave a half-shrug. "The details are... murky. No one talks much about what goes on behind the walls of Blackthorne Heights. But I think she tried to escape. Desperation makes people reckless. Somewhere during her attempt, she was captured by those hooligans. That's when you stumbled across her and saved her at the gala. A very wealthy man just bought her recently."
"She's my slave now. Your information are always outdated," Lysander said.
There was a long pause.
Cassius looked confused trying to understand what Lysander just said.
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
"But what I still don't understand is how you managed to buy her and why?"
Lysander's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.
"She needed to be bought," he said. "I simply obliged."
Cassius studied him for a long moment.
"You always did have a flair for making things sound so simple," he muttered. Then, in a lighter tone, he added, "Are you sure you know what you're getting into?."
Lysander's eyes darkened, the silver in them flashing.
"I know exactly what she is," he said. "And what she isn't."
Cassius gave a slow, theatrical whistle. "Well, then. I'll mind my business." He raised his glass in a lazy salute.
"But if you ever tire of her... I hear Blackthorne Heights would pay handsomely to have a runaway returned."
The air in the room turned to ice.
"I don't sell what's mine," Lysander said, his voice low and final.
Cassius chuckled, but there was a wary edge to it.
"Of course not. I was joking."
Lysander said nothing. He simply poured himself another drink, his mind already back upstairs—back to the girl waiting for him in a room filled with ghosts.
---
Back upstairs, Ophelia huddled on the floor, knees tucked to her chest.
Servants had come and gone, leaving behind trays of rich food: fresh-baked bread, creamy stews, roasted meats, sugared fruits. She hadn't touched a thing.
Her stomach twisted too tightly for hunger to find a place.
The floor was soft beneath her—thick rugs and furs muffling the coldness of the stone—but it didn't matter. No matter how luxurious the surroundings, a slave had no place in a master's bed.
Her fingers dug into the fabric beneath her. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she held them back.
She couldn't afford to cry.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
How heartless can you be, Lord Lysander, she thought bitterly.
You dragged me from a warm bed only to cast me down here like an animal. I thought you were different. I thought you were kind...
Foolish. She had been so foolish.
In the short time since the gala, she had clung to the memory of him—the man who had reached out a hand to her, who had shielded her from cruel masters. In her heart, she'd dared to hope.
But you only wanted to own me.
Who are you, Lord Lysander?
And what do you really want from me?
Ophelia curled tighter into herself, the weight of despair pressing down like a second skin.
Slowly, despite her fear, despite the questions gnawing at her heart, her exhaustion overwhelmed her.
As her eyes fluttered closed, her mind slipped helplessly back—back to a time she wished she could forget.
The day her life changed forever.
The day she became a servant to Mr. Alex.