Chapter 315: Chapter 315: The work of a daughter (1)
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.
But under the smile her pulse was quick. She had money; Serathine had seen to that. But money alone didn’t make rooms like this bow. Lucas had gotten to it first and now he was Duchess Serathine’s ward, wearing custom suits, whispered about in court as if he’d always belonged. He had the position, the invitations, and the influence. She wanted it, too. She wanted to be the one the staff whispered about, the one whose name arrived before she did.
Her fingers tightened around her phone. She wanted to see Misty step through the door with the man she called Odin. She wanted to see her mother seated beside power, not merely circling it, to have proof that all of Misty’s whispered promises about family alliances and hidden benefactors weren’t just theater. Odin had told her Misty was with him. She pictured them together, poised, unbothered, and ready to pull her into their orbit at last. The image steadied her, even as a small, childish tremor of excitement ran through her chest.
A flicker of movement near the maître d’s desk pulled her back. A man had just come through the side door, older, broad-shouldered beneath a perfectly cut black shirt, with dusty blonde hair streaked with silver. His presence rolled into the lobby like cold air from the street, making the low murmur of voices falter. He didn’t look around nervously the way men did when they were trying to impress; he moved like someone who had already been admitted everywhere.
Ophelia’s breath caught. This had to be him. She pressed her palms flat on the seat to keep them still and curled her mouth back into its usual smirk, the one Misty had taught her to use when she wanted to hide a plea as a dare. If he looked at her now, she wanted him to see a girl already dangerous, not a girl who still longed for her father to know her name and a mother to rise from the dead.
He spoke to the maître d’ for barely a moment, then crossed the lobby with the slow, unhurried stride of a man who expected the room to make space for him. When he reached her table, he simply took the seat opposite her as if the reservation had always been for two. Up close the silver in his hair was more striking, his pale eyes even lighter than she’d imagined, full of an unreadable amusement that made her pulse skip.
"Ophelia." His voice was low with an accent hard to place. "Pictures didn’t do you justice."
Her smirk deepened a little at that. ’Good,’ she thought. Let him see my real value.’ She’d been the one to send the photographs and the school records; she’d been the one to slip him the details about Lucas’s new schedules and Serathine’s movements. She had changed in the last year. Now she paid attention to her grades, even when she was bored to death by the subjects. She didn’t care to mingle with the other girls, as now she was standing higher than any of them.
"I chose those pictures carefully," she said lightly, folding her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see them tremble. "It seemed only fair that you should know what you were getting."
A glint of amusement flickered in his pale eyes. "Fair," he echoed, leaning back with an ease that made the expensive black shirt pull against his shoulders. "Ophelia, dear, as we talked before, you are my daughter. There is no need to do anything more than what we agreed upon."
A rush of warmth moved through her chest at the word "daughter." He said it so easily, like it was a fact, not a test. For a heartbeat she almost forgot she’d spent weeks curating her messages, arranging this meeting, and calculating every detail of what she would wear and say. She almost let herself believe she’d been accepted, not auditioned.
She tilted her head, letting a hint of a smile ghost across her lips. "Still... I didn’t want you to be disappointed."
"I’m not," Odin said smoothly. "You’ve been working. I can see it. The grades, the posture, the restraint. All things most adults never master, let alone a girl of seventeen." His eyes drifted over her outfit, the discreet necklace at her throat, then back up to her face. "It’s exactly the kind of discipline that separates heirs from bystanders."
Ophelia’s stomach fluttered. She wanted to look away but forced herself to hold his gaze. "I’ve always wanted to be more than a bystander."
He smiled faintly, leaning forward just enough to lower his voice. "And you will be. We talked about this. Patience, presentation, and the right timing. I asked for discretion, and you’ve been discreet. That’s all I require for now."
Her fingers tightened around her phone again, but this time not from nerves, but from the thrill of being included. "And when the timing is right?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual.
"Then," Odin said, pale eyes unreadable but voice warm, "doors open. Opportunities appear. People who ignored you start to remember your name. That’s how the world works, Ophelia. It’s not magic; it’s leverage."
She gave a small, wicked little smile she’d practiced in mirrors, but inside her pulse was racing. ’Leverage. Doors. Opportunities.’ He was saying all the things she’d been aching to hear. She straightened her skirt under the table and lifted her chin another fraction, already imagining herself on the other side of those doors.
"What about Mother?" she asked, the question slipping out softer than she meant it to.