Ophelia sat perfectly straight on the velvet bench, knees angled just so, a posture she had practiced in front of mirrors until it looked effortless. The lobby was all white marble and soft gold trim, expensive and exclusive, the type of place she felt at home before Misty's demise. She liked it here; it smelled like citrus polish, rare perfumes, and new money trying to pass for old. Her pale blue eyes drifted over the room, cataloging details the way other girls her age would catalog brands.
She had dressed for the moment like she imagined a daughter of power should: a pale blue silk blouse, a skirt that skimmed her knees, and a discreet necklace she'd borrowed from Misty's safe, now hers. Her blonde hair was smoothed into a soft wave over one shoulder, a deliberate echo of the women she saw at Serathine's mansion. In the mirrored wall opposite, she thought she looked exactly right, a young woman with a wicked little smile, already rehearsing the part of someone important.
