Chapter 7
526words
The family steward forced me to attend, stuffed into an ill-fitting gown, haunting the corners like a forgotten ghost.
My presence required only because Damian might need an emergency "donation" at any moment.
Damian and Genevieve commanded the dance floor's center, magnetic in their perfection.
His midnight tailcoat complemented her pristine white gown—darkness and light in perfect harmony.
The crowd parted instinctively as they danced, whispers confirming what everyone saw: a match ordained by fate itself.
Watching them twirl, I felt myself fading—becoming transparent, irrelevant to this glittering world.
While all eyes locked on the perfect couple, I slipped away unnoticed—as invisible in my exit as I'd been in my presence.
The deepest cut came from Jasper and Rowena.
At an elite gathering, a drunk Jasper—supposedly my protector—laughed: "That Ophelia girl should be on her knees thanking Damian. Without him, she'd probably be dead in a ditch somewhere."
Rowena, desperate to please her noble audience, chimed in: "God, yes. She's so withdrawn and ungrateful. You'd think she'd show some appreciation."
"If it were me, I'd be thanking my lucky stars every single day."
A student with a grudge recorded everything and made sure I heard every word.
I stood outside the door, listening to them dissect my worthless existence. In that moment, I truly understood what it meant to be utterly alone.
The betrayal, combined with years of psychological torture, finally broke something fundamental inside me.
On a storm-lashed night, alone in my room with those cruel words echoing in my ears, my chest suddenly constricted.
Agony exploded in my chest. I collapsed to the floor, gasping like a landed fish.
I clawed my way toward the door, thinking vaguely of the dorm manager, but collapsed in the hallway, strength deserting me completely.
As darkness closed in, strong arms scooped me up from the cold floor.
Damian.
Somehow, impossibly, he was in the girls' dormitory at midnight.
For the first time ever, panic distorted his perfect features, his crimson eyes wide with something that looked almost like fear.
"DOCTOR!" he roared down the empty hallway, cradling me against his chest. "SOMEONE GET A DOCTOR NOW!"
When I woke in the hospital, visitors streamed in—a parade of false concern.
The nobility fears scandal above all else. A dead blood servant would raise uncomfortable questions.
Jasper and Rowena offered hollow apologies, eyes downcast with manufactured guilt.
I stared at the wall beyond them. "Don't ever speak to me again."
Damian entered last, after everyone had gone.
He stood at the foot of my bed, uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Should I be eternally grateful?" My voice rasped like sandpaper. "For the privilege of being your blood bag?"
Something flickered across his face—shock, then something deeper. "No," he said with unexpected fierceness. "You owe gratitude to no one, Ophelia. No one."
After my discharge, Damian returned the silver box containing my parents' mementos—confiscated when I first arrived at fifteen.
"This is yours," he said, meeting my eyes directly. "Not family property. Keep it close."
I traced the iris pattern with trembling fingers, emotions tangling in my chest.
