Ophelia felt a sharp pain in her cheek. Her father, Raphael Blackwood's hazel-green eyes, the same as hers, looked down at her with anger and disdain.
Her eldest brother, Rhys Blackwood, watched her with cold, disappointed amber eyes.
Ophelia felt the familiar sting in her chest, that feeling of being unwanted, despised by her entire family simply for being born.
"Do you have anything to say, Ophelia?" Raphael's voice echoed sharply through the massive, fully furnished study.
The walls were painted gold and ivory, bookshelves neatly arranged, six white leather couches encircling a coffee table in the center.
A large redwood desk stood before the window, stacked with monitors, papers, and files.
Ophelia's gaze fell on her elder sister, Ivy, who was sipping coffee like the picture of an elegant daughter from one of Europe's richest families.
There had been thousands of times she had been insulted and demeaned by her family, but she remembered only one time her father had ever physically hurt her.
It was after she returned home from Harvard, after beating up three girls who tried to bully and drug her to be assaulted. Those girls also happened to be the spoiled daughters of wealthy families.
And her father had been furious, not because she'd been attacked, but because she'd dared to strike the daughters of influential business partners.
Her older brother, the CEO of Blackwood Group, had flown from New York, and her older sister, the CEO of Blackwood Textiles, had come from Hong Kong because of the incident.
Ophelia chuckled bitterly at the irony of her situation.
Rhys frowned. "Why are you laughing?"
Ophelia inhaled sharply, her throat tightening from the urge to cry and break, to tell them everything: how she'd been wronged her entire life, how she was killed by her best friend and lover, how she had spent years honing her body into a weapon just to be useful.
But there was nobody to listen.
Nobody to hold her.
Nobody to tell her to let it all out.
She wondered if this second life was a punishment or a miracle , if she was simply meant to be the villainess in a story already written.
"Ophelia." Rhys's voice broke through her thoughts, calm on the surface but simmering with restrained anger.
"What do you want me to say?" Ophelia finally spoke, her voice heavy and weary—tired of being in the same position once again.
"Why did you beat those girls?" Rhys asked.
Raphael scoffed angrily. "What could the reason possibly be? Most likely she lost her temper—"
"They were bullying me verbally since sophomore year," Ophelia cut him off, her voice sharp. "And that night, they tried to drug me to get me raped by a group of boys."
Raphael froze. Ivy paused mid-sip. Rhys slowly uncrossed his arms.
Ophelia felt her eyes sting from the memories she had already lived once. In her past life, she never got the chance to explain; she had been too busy begging for forgiveness, apologizing for ruining her father's reputation.
She remembered how she had once knelt before him, clinging to his leg, begging for his mercy.
But now, her tears were long gone. Her eyes were blank—and her father was the first to notice.
"What did you just say?" he whispered, disbelief softening his tone, his earlier rage fading.
Ophelia looked up at him. Despite being in his fifties, Raphael Blackwood's tall, muscular frame filled the room.
His tailored grey suit hugged his broad shoulders, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked neatly back, his sharp jawline lined with a well-groomed beard.
"It was an act of self-defense," Ophelia said flatly.
Ivy set her cup down with a loud click. Her long blonde hair was styled into a messy bun, with bold smoky makeup emphasizing her emerald-green eyes and soft lips painted a striking red. She wore a cream corset top beneath a black blazer and high-waisted trousers—exuding the aura of a businesswoman in full control.
Ophelia and Ivy had never truly gotten along or rather, Ivy had never cared to.
Conversations between them were rare, and Ophelia always ended up crying afterward while their parents praised Ivy, showering her with affection and luxury, while she was left with hand-me-downs.
"It sounds more complicated than we initially thought," Ivy said coolly, her voice calm and detached, making Ophelia's skin crawl.
Rhys ran a hand through his blond hair, his handsome face, a younger version of Raphael's, twisting in frustration.
"Dad, if we don't teach those families a lesson, people will start taking the Blackwoods as a joke."
Raphael snapped out of his thoughts. His eyes fell on his youngest daughter, standing still with an unreadable expression. Something in him felt strange, but he pushed it aside.
"Rhys, handle this as you see fit," Raphael said, walking back to his desk. Lighting a cigarette, he took a puff and exhaled slowly. "But it doesn't make you any less guilty, Ophelia."
Ophelia's face remained calm, though pain twisted inside her chest.
"You could have handled it more discreetly, yet you chose violence and dragged the entire family into a mess."
Raphael's tone was absolute, echoing through the golden study.
Ophelia clenched her jaw. Again — her fault. Always her fault.
She had killed her father in her past life, ruined her brother's life until he ended up in a mental asylum, and murdered her sister's husband ,who had also been Kayros Natheniel's best friend, just to help Vincent Dimitri rise to power.
And when she finally sat at the top, on her father's chair, all she'd felt was anger toward herself. Anger for never being loved.
All for Vincent Dimitri.
Ophelia inhaled sharply and looked at her father. Years of ruling as the matriarch of the Blackwood family had taught her one thing—her father was one of the most dangerous men alive. If not for her careful planning, she never would have been able to kill him.
"I don't regret my actions."
Raphael's eyebrows shot up. Ophelia's coldness and bluntness were foreign—not just to him, but to her siblings.
"Are you hearing yourself?"
"I am," Ophelia said softly, blinking slowly, her heart going numb.
"And why is that?"
Ophelia almost laughed at her father's question. What kind of father asks why his daughter defended herself from assault?
"Would you have preferred I was assaulted and killed, Father?"
Rhys and Ivy stiffened visibly at her words. Raphael's eyes widened, but no sound came out.
Ophelia continued quietly, "I have nobody to protect me, nobody to hold me, so I will do everything and anything to protect myself."
Her voice cracked despite her efforts to stay composed, betraying the years of silence and pain she had buried.
For the first time, Ivy looked at her. Her lips parted as if to say something, but Ophelia didn't want to hear it, not another lecture about being dramatic.
She turned on her heels, eyes blurring with unshed tears. "Don't worry, Father. I have no intention of ruining the family name or sabotaging my siblings' future."
And she walked out, without a single voice calling her back. Nobody was calling her back in all three of her lives.