ODETTE/OPHELIA'S POV
The air in the ballroom feels charged and heavy. Blake Nathaniel's presence alone is enough to make even the strongest general's hands tremble.
Things are happening too fast. I intentionally provoke Vincent, yes—to get slapped, to create a disadvantage for the Dimitri family.
But Kayros stepping in and punching him without any consideration of the consequences—that I don't see coming.
My eyes widen. My hand flies to grip his wrist. Timofey Dimitri is roaring in anger, and a twisted, icy feeling freezes my limbs when he pulls out a gun and his guards follow his lead.
The air squeezes my chest. For the first time in over a decade, I feel real fear.
My fingers tighten around Kayros's wrist; his pulse beats wildly and fast under my touch, trembling with pure rage.
And then—suddenly—Blake Nathaniel is standing before us.
His shoulders are broad, war-hardened. An unmoving wall.
My eyes widen further. Kayros's breathing stops for one long, suspended moment.
No one in the room dares to make a sound louder than a breath. When the King moves, his subjects watch and wait for the verdict.
His silver hair holds decades of power, secrets, arrogance, and pride.
"BLAKE NATHANIEL!" Timofey roars, his thick Russian accent heavy with parental fury. It rumbles across the ballroom like thunder.
I gulp. My throat is dry and tight with anxiety.
Blake doesn't even flinch. His icy blue eyes stare at Timofey as if he isn't even worth listening to.
Vincent staggers to his feet and spits blood onto the polished floor, his face contorted in humiliation.
A small, twisted, arrogant smile touches Blake's lips—the kind that makes him look dangerous and predatory. Chills race down my spine.
That smirk… dark and devilish… Kayros wears the exact same one before he is about to show who is the real predator.
My head rings. I wasn't built for this mafia shit. I underestimated everything, thinking it would be simple just because I knew the story.
A chilling realization makes my jaw clench and my focus sharpen.
I have no control. Nothing is following the original storyline—and I haven't even done much to change the tide.
"You should teach your son some manners, Timofey," Blake says, his voice dripping with arrogance.
Timofey's eyes burn red with humiliation. He laughs, loud and mocking. "What about your son, huh?"
Blake chuckles, the sound deep and cold. "My son protected his future wife." His eyes darken. "The future Lady of the Nathaniel family, who was just struck by your immature boy."
I gasp, my eyes widening so hard I think they might pop out.
What did he just say?!
I look up at Kayros and whisper slowly, "Your dad doesn't like you?"
He frowns, just as confused. "I fucking know that, ma chérie," he whispers back, his breath a warm rush against my ear.
"But he's protecting us," I insist, tightening my grip on his wrist.
He dips his head closer. "Shut up. You intentionally provoked Vincent. Look what's happening."
It almost makes me laugh—the small crease between his brows, the glare in his eyes—it makes me want to tease him. But not here.
"I didn't—"
"Shut up."
I press my lips into a tight line, an unconscious pout forming as I turn back to the tense standoff.
Timofey looks like he wants to say more. He runs a hand through his hair. Around us, several women inhale sharply.
I shoot a judgmental glance at them—women in their late thirties, married to boring rich men, living as trophy wives. It is almost hilarious, and disturbing, how flushed some of them look watching two men on the verge of a gang war.
"That doesn't mean your son can humiliate mine! That bitch was talking nonsense—"
Kayros's head snaps toward Timofey, fury flashing in his eyes. Panic kicks in, and I pull him closer to me.
He looks like a caged animal ready to break free and tear Timofey apart.
"Bitch?" A calm, familiar voice cuts through the tension. "I wonder who you're referring to as bitch."
I freeze and turn.
My mouth falls open slightly in disbelief as Raphael Blackwood—my daddy—walks between the two angry fathers with the ease and coolness of a monk.
A wine glass is in his hand, his expression relaxed. He tilts his head and smiles at Timofey. "You weren't referring to my daughter, were you, Timmy?"
Blood rushes hot and loud through my veins. I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.
Is this real?
Did Raphael Blackwood—the man who never liked Ophelia, the father in name only—just take my side?
That smile on his lips is anything but pleasant. It is soft, curved, and sharp enough to cut through stone.
Timofey grits his teeth. He studies the situation, his grip on the gun turning his knuckles white.
He is at a disadvantage. My exposing Vincent and Elosia doesn't help him, either.
"I will never forget this day," Timofey spits, then turns and storms toward the exit.
Daddy just smiles and waves, as if sending off a friend—not a mortal enemy.
He looks oddly pleased. Unlike Blake Nathaniel, who finally turns to face me and Kayros.
I stiffen unconsciously.
Kayros shifts slightly, placing himself more in front of me, his chin high, his expression cold and unreadable—just like his father's.
Blake's voice is icy. "Did you understand what could have happened?"
"He raised his hand at my fiancée," Kayros says, his voice trembling with restrained anger.
Blake's sharp gaze shifts to me, measuring me in silence. "So you would make an enemy of the Dimitris for her?"
It isn't a question—it's an observation he is confirming.
Kayros doesn't hesitate. "She is my family."
I snap my head up to look at him. My heart does a small, stupid flutter—no business feeling warm after everything that has just happened.
He laces our fingers together, claiming me. Announcing it to the world.
Blake's eyes drop to our joined hands. His expression gives nothing away. The silence feels like a verdict.
But all I can see is Kayros holding my hand—despite how much he claims to hate me.
A small seed of hope makes my shoulders feel lighter.
"And nobody touches what is mine," Kayros finishes, his voice final.
Daddy's eyebrow twitches. He doesn't say anything else. Neither does Blake.
Blake looks directly at me. "Do you want to move forward with the engagement today?"
I snap out of my daze. This is basically my first real conversation with Blake, and his presence is heavy. Dangerous.
My mouth feels too dry for words, so I just nod.
Daddy raises an eyebrow, surprised. Of course he is—I'd beaten him up a few days after waking up in this world, and now here I am, meekly nodding at Blake Nathaniel.
The rest of the evening passes in a surreal blur. We dance the first dance. We argue over the most trivial things—him glaring at me like I've personally offended him just by breathing. He keeps calling me ma chérie while I'm sure he's plotting his next move to ruin me.
Guests congratulate us. Wine, champagne, hatred dressed as good wishes, enemies pretending to be friends.
Somehow, the engagement that almost became a disaster ends in success.
And then… Kayros and I are locked inside a disturbingly romantic couples' suite for the night.
Red roses are everywhere. Red pillows and sheets. Scented candles burn. It looks like a medieval royal bedroom set up for newlyweds to… consummate.
He stares at me, half curious, half disappointed. "Did you plan this?"
I turn to him. "I should be asking you that."
He rolls his eyes and walks past me. "Even if you get naked and throw yourself at me, I won't fuck you tonight."
I gasp. "Excuse me? I'm not dying to have sex with you," I say firmly, jabbing a finger into his chest.
He catches my wrist and growls low, making my heart race stupidly.
"Feeling's mutual, ma chérie."
"Stop calling me that, you bastard." I step closer. His grip tightens. His eyes harden.
"Oh, that's just for show. Now I can't call you Stranger Danger."
I groan in frustration. "Can you stop acting like this?"
"You're not Ophelia," he says firmly.
"I am Ophelia."
"You're not."
"I am."
"No."
"YES!"
I snap, my voice rising. I am already tired, overwhelmed, and emotionally exhausted.
"Okay, fine!" I blurt out. "I'm not Ophelia. My real name is Odette. I don't know how, but I've been in Ophelia's body for thirty-three days."
I breath heavily.... the truth is out.
His jaw tightens. He inhales sharply. I brace for questions—dozens of them.
But he just… steps back.
"I know," he says, his voice distant, irritated, furious.
I blink rapidly, parting my lips to say something—anything—that could bridge this sudden chasm between us.
But he just starts clearing the rose petals off the bed, shrugging out of his coat.
He leaves me standing there with a thousand questions and a restless, sinking heart.
"Kayros," I whisper.
"I don't want to talk."
And he vanishes into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
My lips wobble. My eyes sting painfully. My heart feels heavier than ever.
This is the worst.