ODETTE/OPHELIA'S POV
In Eyes of Glacier, there was an interesting detail mentioned more than once.
Jessica was dear to the Blackwood family. Specifically, to Daddy and Rhys.
The novel said it was because Jessica's late mother was like a sister to Raphael. But sitting in the black limousine, the heater humming softly, two pairs of intense eyes pinning me down while Jessica curls into a small, trembling ball beside me…
I doubt their protectiveness is that simple.
"Did you say those hurtful things to Jess?" Rhys's cold voice cuts through the heavy silence.
Jess. A nickname for another girl, while he treats his own sister like a sinner.
The irony stings.
I keep my spine straight, my mind sharp. I don't know if it's because, despite knowing I'm not the real Ophelia, Kayros looked so certain when he said he'd cover a war for me. Or if it's simply because, in this entire world, there's one person who knows my real name—one person who lets me remember who I was.
Maybe it's all of it together, giving me this silent, unshakable courage.
"I don't remember what you're trying to say," I reply casually.
Jessica's head snaps toward me, her burgundy eyes wide with surprise.
"Are you denying you humiliated her at the breakfast table?" Rhys scoffs in disbelief, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
I shrug. "So many things happened at breakfast."
My eyes dart to Daddy. His hazel-green gaze is sharp, assessing. He hasn't spoken a word, but the weight of his silence presses down on me harder than any accusation.
Jessica turns to me, lips trembling. "You said I killed my mother and brother."
"And you said I'm the monster who ate my mother to come into this world."
The car goes still. My voice doesn't waver. My gaze doesn't flicker.
Jessica looks like a fox caught in her own trap.
"In that case," I continue, my tone even, "you killed your mother and brother by letting yourself get kidnapped and letting them die saving you. Because my mother died wanting to bring me into this world—"
"ENOUGH!"
Daddy's voice echoes through the car, sharp and final. His hands are clenched tight on his knees, his face like stone.
Rhys and Jessica flinch visibly.
My heart sinks, but I keep my expression calm. Inside, a cold, gut-twisting fear uncoils—the kind born from memory. My real father's voice used to sound like that. It meant the whip. The stick. Pulled hair. No food, no water for days. Just a dark room, the stench of blood, and the chill of abandonment.
"What?" I say, forcing bravery into my voice, hiding the tremor in my hands tucked inside my pockets.
His eyes flicker with something—regret, maybe—before it vanishes behind his usual neutrality.
My eyes sting despite my resolve. Some wounds are too deep to simply overcome.
Jessica wipes away her tears, inhaling shakily like the wounded party. Rhys looks torn but stays silent.
The rest of the ride is heavy with unspoken accusations.
Back at Blackwood Manor, the butler greets us with practiced deference. Ivy has already returned. It's announced that Jessica will be staying with us—until my wedding, supposedly.
But my real concern isn't Jessica.
It's the petite woman walking behind Rhys, carrying two files. Sarah Mars. Or rather, Sarah Medici. The lost princess of Italy's most powerful mafia dynasty—and the bargaining chip on my board.
Rhys loves her. It's clear in the novel, and it's clear now—the way his shoulders loosen when she's near, how he dips his head to listen, how his gaze softens as if she's oxygen itself.
Jessica is busy playing the harmless guest, but I've dealt with enough masterminds behind major crimes to recognize a hunter. She's measuring everyone she sees. She's here for someone. Or something. And I wouldn't cross out the possibility that she knows about Sarah.
---
Exhausted, I collapse onto my bed. My limbs feel heavy, stiff from days of tension. Even with my eyes closed, my mind churns—twisted plots, dangerous variables. Jessica is a complication I foolishly didn't account for.
And I'm not foolish enough now to think she isn't dangerous.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. An encrypted text from an unknown number.
[I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE HIDING]
What the hell? I sit up, annoyed. Who texts at 2 a.m. trying to be mysterious?
My fingers fly across the screen.
[Yeah, I'm hiding twenty billion dollars in my cunt. Fuck off or I'll make a stew out of you and feed you to the hounds.]
Seen.
A reply comes instantly.
[How crude! Aren't you scared what I might do with your secret?]
I chuckle, low and amused. My annoyance shifts into something sharper—interest. Who thinks they can threaten me with a secret I don't even have?
[No. Because I can make stew out of you anytime I meet you.]
The next text is faster.
[You have no idea who you're talking to.]
[I'm talking to a bastard who's very interested in the wealth I hide in my cunt.]
I yawn. Is this some teenager trying to act tough?
[I know what you're hiding.]
I roll my eyes. [Then make a stew out of it and eat it.]
With that, I drift into an uneasy sleep.
---
Nothing prepares me for what happens at the brink of dawn.
A cold, sharp metal presses against my throat.
My eyes snap open. The room is dark, lit only by the dim moonlight filtering through the open balcony door. A pair of dark violet eyes stare down at me, intense and unblinking.
This is the worst way to wake up.
I raise an eyebrow. "I don't remember giving anyone permission to break into my room."
He presses the knife closer. A slow, thin line of pain blooms. My fist tightens in the sheets.
"You're too arrogant," a deep, masculine voice says, heavy with an Italian accent. His grip on my shoulder pins me to the bed.
And when I finally see his face clearly—
I regret every sarcastic text.
Sharp jawline covered in intentional stubble. A scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Full, pinkish lips. A Roman nose. And those violet eyes—sparking with rage, hatred, and cold fury.
My body goes still. My heart hammers against my ribs.
"Seems you recognize me now," he growls, low and dangerous. He smells of cider, cigarettes, and a strong, masculine musk that screams danger. "After being so confident about making stew out of me."
"What is the heir of the Medici family doing in my bedroom with a knife to my throat?" My voice is steady, but my hands are trembling.
"You should be glad I haven't killed you yet," he grits out, leaning closer. The knife presses harder, drawing a bead of blood. I wince. "Or else, you'd deserve death—and being made into your favorite stew—for how you plan to use my sister as leverage."
My eyes widen.
Realization hits me faster than the sunrise.
His expression darkens. "What? You thought I wouldn't know? You gave your father the idea to marry my little sister—the lost princess of the Medici family—to your brother. To use her as a bridge between our families."
His low, bitter laugh makes my blood run cold. My back is slick with sweat. My stomach twists.
But I hold his gaze. "Your sister? Who are you talking about?"
"Are you fucking with me?" he snarls, his forehead almost touching mine.
Being a lawyer taught me one thing: there's no greater liar than someone who believes their own lie.
I sharpen my gaze. "Gabriel Medici—you trespass into my bedroom at dawn, hurt me, and dare to accuse me of conspiracy?"
He groans in frustration. "Ophelia, I'm being nice—"
"Nice? You're hovering over me, holding a knife to my throat, gripping me so hard you'll dislocate my shoulder. Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"
His confidence falters. "Don't bring my mother into this."
I feel his grip on the knife loosen. Seizing the advantage, I buck my knees, flip him under me, and straddle him.
He gasps. Before he can react, I wrench the knife from his hand and drive it deep into his shoulder.
He groans in pain, blood welling up. I press the blade against his throat.
"Are you fucking insane?" he strains.
My eyes are cold. Merciless. I didn't come this far to die in my own bed.
"You should leave if you don't want to become stew for the hounds."
His eyes darken with venomous hate, but I don't flinch.
"If you do anything to my sister—"
"I won't." The words come out softer than I intend. He pauses. "Your sister… is the only one who ever cared about me."
His breath hitches. His expression softens—then twists with a pain that has nothing to do with the wound in his shoulder.
"My sister… so she's really here?" he whispers, hope and fear tangled in his voice.
I shouldn't pity him. But I know how long he and his family have searched for their youngest.
I nod. "Yeah. She's here."
His eyes well up.
"She's safe," I add, my tone softening just enough to sound assuring. "And… she's amazing."
A choked breath escapes him. He closes his eyes, a single tear slipping free.
"Leave," I say quietly. "You'll see your sister soon."
"No—I'm taking her with me," he snaps, then winces as his wound protests.
"I said leave, or I'll feed you to the hounds."
He clenches his jaw. "Get off me."
"Say you'll leave first."
"Ophelia—"
"Say it."
He curses under his breath. "Fine. I'm leaving."
I nod and shift off him. He stands, taller and broader than I'd realized.
If Kayros and Gabriel ever faced off, I wonder who'd walk away…
The thought is cut short by a sharp, sudden pain in my neck. He injects me with something.
My head spins. I gasp.
Gabriel throws me over his shoulder like a sack.
"HELP!" I scream, fighting weakly. "SOMEONE, HELP!"
And then I remember—Ophelia doesn't have guards stationed outside her door. Not like the others.
My consciousness fades. The last thing I hear is his voice, dark with promise:
"Pray your father or your fiancé finds you fast. Or your life will be a living hell."
My eyes drift shut. I whisper into the nothingness:
"None... is coming for me..."