The following morning, after their late-night encounter, Ophelia woke up with a familiar hollowness in her stomach. The memory of the previous night's exchange—the brief, fragile peace shattered by Darren's cruel reminder of her status—left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had almost forgotten, almost allowed herself a moment of normalcy. But he had yanked the leash, a harsh and effective reminder of her place.
The thought fueled her with a quiet defiance. She wouldn't let him see her broken. She would dress for her day, for her life, as if he had no power over it at all.
She chose an outfit that was both elegant and a quiet protest: a white silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that accentuated her long legs. A delicate silver chain was her only jewelry. She was dressed not for his mansion, but for her own life.
After a quick, self-applied makeup touch-up, she headed down the grand staircase at 11 a.m., feeling a practiced calm.
