In the anteroom off the main hall, the door closed behind the security detail with a soft click, shutting out the sound of the cameras. Ophelia's perfume and panic still hung in the air, clashing with the neutral scent of disinfectant and polished wood.
Lucius stood at the edge of the long table, hands braced lightly on its surface, watching the girl they'd just removed from the floor. He had told himself, before she arrived, that she might still have some sense, that she was young, naïve, perhaps angry, but not yet beyond reach. Seeing her now, eyes fever-bright, dress rumpled from her struggle, he understood he'd been wrong. She wasn't just angry. She was desperate enough to let men like Odin use her.
"You've caused a scene," he said quietly, his voice the even, patient tone of a man discussing weather. "You think it will help you. It won't."
Ophelia twisted against the grip on her arm. "You don't understand… Mother is alive! He told me… he showed me!"
