KAYROS'S POV
The mirror reflects a man who looks like he has everything under control.
Blue eyes that have never flinched—even at gunpoint.
Yet inside my head, something raw twists and turns, tearing everything apart.
Knowing… and confirming… are not the same thing.
She confessed. Loudly. Without hesitation—after the initial denial.
I dip my head into the bathtub water.
Cold rushes down my spine. My head rings. My chest tightens.
I hold my breath. My eyes squeeze shut. I feel suffocated.
Other than the ripples in the water and the soft hum of the forest surrounding the hotel, nothing breaks the silence.
She is not Ophelia.
She is not Ophelia.
She is not Ophelia.
She is not Ophelia.
She is not Ophelia.
SHE IS NOT OPHELIA.
I scream underwater—raw, animalistic rage filled with years of frustration, betrayal, and heartache that exceeds two lifetimes.
Water splashes onto the floor. My lungs burn. The back of my head throbs.
When I finally pull up, water drenches my shirt. My breathing is heavy and ragged. My shoulders tremble with emotions so intense they make me want to destroy everything.
I want to shake the woman outside.
I want answers.
WHERE IS SHE?
WHERE IS OPHELIA?
IF SHE ISN'T OPHELIA, WHO WILL CARRY THE WEIGHT OF MY REVENGE?!
I pant heavily. It feels like someone sliced my chest open and dug hundreds—thousands—of poisonous needles into my heart.
A low, rough laugh escapes me.
"Ha… hahahaha…"
It echoes through the luxurious bathroom.
I knew it from the start.
But when she confirmed it—it became real.
She became real.
This became real.
Heat rises through my body. Not only did my plan fail today because of that woman…
I'm forced to face the demons inside me—demons screaming for revenge and the agony of Ophelia Blackwood.
Leaning against the bathtub, staring at the dark forest beyond the window, I let my fury settle.
"Odette," I whisper under my breath.
Not Ophelia.
Odette.
Two wine bottles sit in an ice bucket beside the tub.
I grab one.
I pop it open and don't bother with a glass. I drink straight from the bottle. Red wine—sweet and depressing. Loneliness dressed in luxury.
Gulp.
Gulp. Gulp.
I finish the entire bottle. My chest burns in a different way.
The second bottle is gone within minutes.
When I stand, my head sways. My vision blurs. Consciousness slips into some dark corner.
I open the bathroom door.
Odette is sitting in the bedroom, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the floor—trying to make herself smaller.
Something inside me cracks.
My mouth feels dry.
What do I call her?
How do I treat her?
My basic human decency won't let me treat her like the bitch I keep claiming she is.
"Ma chérie."
Her head snaps up in surprise.
Ma chérie.
Something my father used to call my mother. Something loving. Tender. Intimate.
Her eyes are glassy, red, filled with tears.
I stride toward her. Fuck—my chest hurts seeing her like this.
I push her onto the bed and cup the back of her neck before crashing my mouth onto hers.
Guilty.
Hurt.
Needy.
Desperate.
Her tongue clashes with mine. Her hands clutch my collar and the back of my neck with the same desperation.
She tastes sweet. Addictive. Familiar.
Like I've known her for years.
I don't know why I can't stop myself.
Odette tilts her head and kisses me back harder, like she's trying to devour me the same way I'm trying to devour her.
Everything blurs. The only thing grounding me is her scent—soft vanilla and cocoa mixed with something uniquely hers—pulling me deeper into this abyss of confusion and misery.
Her fingers tug at the buttons of my shirt, undoing them like she's done it a hundred times before.
I'm either drunk—
or I'm too deep in lust.
There's no other explanation.
Holding her waist, I roll her beneath me. My shirt hangs half open. My belt is already undone by her. I unzip her gown, letting it slip off her shoulder.
"Kayros," she whispers against my lips.
We're both breathing hard, bodies burning.
I pull back slightly, my eyes meeting hers—glassy with desire and that dangerous need to go further.
"I'm drunk," I warn, my voice rough.
"Fuck it. I don't care."
She shrugs my shirt off, her hand sliding down my chest and abs. I shudder under her confident touch.
"You shouldn't be doing this," I say, but I press her palm harder against my scars, my hardened muscles.
She doesn't flinch.
It only makes the air hotter.
"Mmm… your body says something else," she murmurs, blinking slowly—playing with the last shred of my rationality.
I don't fucking like her.
I don't fucking love her.
This is just physical lust. Nothing more.
"If we go any further, we'll be fucking," I growl, my hand spreading over her back, right above the hook of her bra.
She frowns. "So?"
Her hazel-green eyes catch the soft glow of candlelight—too bright for the darkness in my mind.
My gaze traces her face like a slow caress.
I could strip her bare.
I could fuck her right here.
I could blame it on anger, lust, need.
But when I look into her eyes—
I see Ophelia.
The woman I once loved.
I once begged.
I once died for.
And suddenly, everything feels like sin.
This woman isn't Ophelia.
And I still can't let Ophelia go.
My hardness presses against her core. It would be easy. Fucking easy.
But instead, I gently push her away and stand up. My head spins. My body aches with need.
Odette looks at me—confused, hurt, embarrassed.
I tap my knuckles against my forehead, trying to ground myself. The urge to grab her, to rip her dress and fuck her, screams inside me.
"I'm not in the right state of mind," I say tightly. "I'll be in the next room. Don't come near me."
I catch her reflection in the mirror.
It feels like someone punched the air out of my chest.
Her lips wobble—red from our kiss. Her eyes drop as she whispers, barely audible, "I-I understand."
A crack forms in my chest.
But I don't turn back.
I don't pull her into my arms.
I grab my belt from the floor and stride into the next room.
The suite is massive—royal bedroom, gold-decorated bathroom, balcony overlooking a perfectly manicured forest, a living room that screams wealth and taste.
I collapse onto the sofa, heart racing, drunk, shameless—and painfully hard.
I already know I'm going to suffer through twenty different stages of regret and embarrassment once the sun rise up the horizon.
A deep, tired sigh leaves me.
Then a whisper—something dangerously close to prophecy.
"This woman is far more dangerous than Ophelia…"
"And I'm royally fucked."