She found her classroom, a modern lecture hall with tiered seating and a massive screen at the front. It was already half-full, a low hum of conversation filling the air.
Ophelia paused at the doorway for a heartbeat, letting the sound wash over her — laughter, footsteps, the shuffle of notebooks. For so long, her world had been silent corridors and guarded glances. Now she stood in a place that buzzed with life.
She took a deep breath and walked in.
The faint click of her heels drew attention. Heads turned, whispers rose, and she felt it again — the weight of eyes tracing her. The soft silk blouse, the skirt, the subtle scent of expensive perfume. Everything about her screamed elegance.
Except she didn't feel elegant.
She felt like a fraud.
She slipped into a seat in the middle row, close enough to observe but not enough to be the center of attention. Pulling out a fresh notebook from the sleek black backpack Darren had bought her, she traced her finger over its smooth cover — a small reminder of the man who both ruined and rebuilt her life.
Every item she owned now had his fingerprints on it.
Even her freedom.
As the room filled, Ophelia's mind wandered — not to Darren this time, but to possibility. She had never had real friends. Her stepmother and stepsister had ensured she was always an outsider, a burden, a servant. Her life had been a series of endless part-time jobs, a solitary pursuit of a better future. She had never had the time or energy for friendships.
But now, she wanted them. She wanted to laugh with someone about a terrible professor, to complain about a hard assignment—to just be a normal girl with normal problems.
The door opened again minutes before the lecture was set to begin — and for a moment, the air shifted.
A guy walked in. He was a whirlwind of energy, his long, casual stride drawing attention. He had sun-kissed hair that fell in a mess of curls over his forehead and a wide, easy smile that seemed to light up the room. He was handsome in a way that was both striking and entirely approachable, like a surfer who had accidentally wandered into a college campus.
Ophelia wasn't the only one who noticed.
A few girls near the back gasped, whispering his name under their breath.
"Chris Hughes," one of them whispered, barely containing her excitement. "He's in this class?"
He moved through the aisles like he owned them, his icy blue eyes scanning for a seat — and landed on the empty one beside her.
He grinned, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin, and strode over. "Is this seat taken?" he asked, his voice a low, friendly rumble.
Ophelia looked up, caught off balance. "No."
He grinned. "Perfect."
He dropped his backpack with a soft thud, lounging into the seat with careless ease. "Made it with one minute to spare. My internal clock's a work of art — always late but never too late."
Ophelia smiled despite herself. "Impressive talent."
He extended his hand. "Chris Hughes."
"Ophelia Smith."
"Ophelia," he repeated, as if testing the shape of her name. "That's a dangerous name. Shakespearean. Tragic. Please tell me you plan on rewriting the ending."
She laughed — soft, unguarded, real. The sound startled her more than it should have. She hadn't laughed like that in months.
The professor, a stern-looking woman in a tweed jacket, entered then. The room quieted instantly. Chris gave Ophelia a quick conspiratorial glance before straightening up.
For the next two hours, Ophelia lost herself in the rhythm of words and ideas. She scribbled furiously, her hand aching from notes, but her heart light. For the first time since she'd been taken to the Delgado mansion, her mind was her own.
When class ended, she exhaled, her pulse thrumming with quiet exhilaration.
Chris turned to her, grinning. "Okay, confession time. You terrified me a little back there."
She blinked. "Terrified you?"
He nodded solemnly. "You were like a note-taking machine. I've never seen anyone write that fast. My hand cramped just watching you."
Ophelia smiled. "I like being prepared."
"Then you're the kind of person I need. Come on," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "You have your next class here?"
She shook her head. "I need to familiarise myself around first."
"Perfect. I'll walk with you. Campus tour, free of charge."
She hesitated but then agreed, quietly grateful since Anna didn't show her around fully. They walked through the campus together — wide lawns edged with palm trees, glass buildings gleaming under the Nevada sun, students sprawled on benches with laptops and iced coffees.
Chris pointed things out with the ease of someone who belonged here. "That's the journalism block — best vending machine coffee in the entire university. Over there's the student lounge. Avoid it on Mondays; karaoke club meets there."
Ophelia smiled faintly. "Duly noted."
They passed the broadcasting studio, its sign catching her eye. She slowed, her voice soft. "That's where they film the student media shows, right?"
"Yeah. You into that stuff?"
Her fingers tightened on her bag strap. "A little. I want to be a TV host someday. Interview people. The kind who've… been through things. Ask them how they survived."
Chris tilted his head, studying her for a moment. "That's deep. I like it. Most people just say they want to be famous."
She smiled, looking away. "I don't want fame. I want stories."
They ended their little tour at a cozy coffee stand near the quad. The air smelled of espresso and sunlight. Students laughed nearby, music spilling faintly from someone's speaker.
"Thanks for the tour," Ophelia said.
"Anytime." He smiled easily, "you survived your first class. That deserves a reward—coffee?"
A spark of happiness flickered through her. Coffee. Conversation. Something normal.
Then it dimmed just as fast.
"I can't," she said, her voice low. "I have to go home."
His brows furrowed. "Oh. That's… okay. You've got plans?"
"Something like that," she murmured. The lie tasted bitter.
"Well," he said, his carefree personality returning in a flash. "Maybe next time. What other classes are you in? Maybe we have another one together."
She told him her schedule, and he pulled out his phone, his eyes lighting up as he scrolled through it. "Sweet! We have two more classes together. Looks like fate wants us to be friends, Ophelia." He grinned. "I'll see you in the next one."
He gave her a friendly wave, and just like that, he walked away—his easy charm leaving a trail of murmurs and glances behind him.
Ophelia stood still, holding her schedule to her chest. For a moment, she let herself imagine what it would be like to say yes—to grab coffee, to laugh freely, to be normal. But her reality wasn't that simple.