The soft whir of the door gliding open pulled Ophelia from the cold grip of her past. She snatched her hands from the balcony railing, whirling around just as Maria, the maid, wheeled a food cart into the room.
Maria stopped short, her eyes immediately going to Ophelia's face. The woman's composure, usually so carefully guarded, instantly crumbled at the sight of genuine human concern.
"Miss Ophelia? Are you alright?" Maria asked softly, her brow furrowed with worry.
It was only then that Ophelia realized her face was wet. She hadn't been sobbing, but the memory of her father's funeral and her stepmother's betrayal had forced hot, silent tears down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand, feeling a fresh wave of humiliation.
"Miss Ophelia?"
Maria's voice was soft, hesitant. She pushed in a cart laden with silver domes, the faint scent of roasted chicken and herbs curling into the balcony.
"Dios mío," Maria whispered, abandoning the cart to step closer. "You've been crying."
Ophelia stiffened, embarrassed. She turned away, gripping the balcony railing tighter. "I'm fine."
"You are not fine." Maria's tone was gentle, but firm. She reached out as though to touch Ophelia's arm, then thought better of it and let her hand fall. "Your eyes… they are red."
Ophelia let out a bitter laugh, short and sharp. "Of course they are. I've been locked in a mansion like some… pet bird. You'd cry too."
Maria's lips pressed together, worry etched across her face. "Miss—"
"Maria." Ophelia cut her off, spinning around, desperation flooding her voice. "Please. Help me. You can open doors, right? You can walk out of here whenever you want. Take me with you. Just to the street, that's all I need. I'll figure out the rest."
Maria paled. Her hands twisted in the folds of her apron. "No. I can't."
"Why not?" Ophelia's voice cracked. She hated how it sounded—pleading, raw. But the hope that had flared in her chest was too bright to smother. "Please. You don't understand. I have a scholarship, a future. If I miss orientation—"
"I do understand," Maria said, more sharply than before. She glanced at the door, as if afraid someone might overhear. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But I am just a maid. Do you think I can defy Señor Delgado and still live to see tomorrow?"
Ophelia's stomach sank. The words rang like a verdict. In her desperation she had forgotten Maria is just powerless as her.
Maria hesitated, then she stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"I must tell you something, Miss Ophelia. When you were brought here… I was surprised."
Ophelia frowned. "Surprised?"
Maria reached out then, fingers brushing Ophelia's sleeve lightly, like a sister soothing her frightened little sister. "Listen to me. In all the years I have worked here, I have never seen Señor do this before. Never."
Ophelia blinked at her. "Do what?"
"Keep someone," Maria said simply. Her gaze flickered, nervous. "Women come, yes. They stay for dinners, for nights. They laugh, they… disappear. But never like this. Never locked inside his home. Never by force. And never someone… innocent."
A chill prickled over Ophelia's skin.
Maria shook her head, her voice hushed and urgent. "That means there is a reason. And when Señor Delgado has a reason… nothing is by accident. Not the wine he drinks, not the cards he plays, not the people he keeps close. He is not so cruel as to steal a life without reason."
Ophelia's chest tightened. "You're saying there is a reason? That this isn't just—just him throwing his weight around?"
Maria sighed, sorrow etched across her face. "I do not know the reason. Only that there must be one. Señor Delgado does not waste time on meaningless cruelty. If you are here, it means something."
Ophelia's lips parted, her breath catching. The words both unsettled and enraged her. Something? What could possibly justify kidnapping her, tearing her away from her life, her dreams, her freedom?
Ophelia's throat worked. "So what? You're telling me to accept it? To sit here and… wait? Like some… like some doll on a shelf?"
"No," Maria said softly. Her expression gentled. "I am telling you to have patience. To survive."
The word sliced through Ophelia like a blade. Survive. It was the same word she'd clung to as a teenager, scrubbing dishes under her stepmother's roof. Survive until you can escape. Survive until you can fight.
Her fists curled against the railing.
Maria's voice lowered further. "Whatever the reason, Miss, it is not because you are nothing. Men like him… they do not waste time on nothing."
Ophelia's chest tightened. She didn't want to believe that—didn't want to give Darren Delgado the satisfaction of thinking he had power over her beyond steel locks and guards at the gates.
But the words lodged in her anyway.
"Patience," Maria repeated, retreating a step toward the cart. She lifted one of the silver domes, releasing a wave of steam and the rich scent of garlic and rosemary. "Eat, regain your strength. You will need it."
Ophelia's stomach growled traitorously, but she shook her head. "I don't want his food."
Maria gave her a sad, almost knowing smile. "It is not his food. It is yours. You eat, you endure, and one day—you walk free."
Ophelia looked down, her hair falling in a curtain to shield her face. The tears threatened again, but this time she clenched her jaw, holding them back. She had cried enough for one lifetime.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. "I've walked free before. I'll do it again."
Maria nodded slowly, as though she believed her. Or wanted to. "Then be smart, Miss. Do not let your fire burn out too soon."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unsaid truths.
Finally, Maria set the dishes on the small table near the balcony door, smoothed her apron, and gave Ophelia one last look. "Be patient, Miss. The truth always comes, sooner or later. And when it does… you will understand why," then slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.