The wedding planners leave first. Then Czar and Marcus.
Soon, only Ophelia and Kayros remain in the tearoom.
The tearoom of Natheniel's mansion sits on the southern side of the estate, overlooking the winter-frozen garden—quiet now, but destined to bloom with life and color once spring arrives.
Luxurious sofas, a small coffee table, and a grand piano rest beside the floor-to-ceiling window.
Kayros stands, circling around her with calm steps until he reaches the piano.
His eyes look like a peaceful lake in springtime—still, but hiding depth.
"How is it here?" he asks.
Ophelia glances at him. "Better than I expected."
Kayros's lips twitch, but he doesn't smile. He simply nods.
"Tell Alaska anything you need. She's been here for two decades. Trained under my mother."
Ophelia watches his long fingers glide over the piano keys, pressing them absentmindedly.
She had read in the novel that Kayros played the piano whenever his thoughts grew heavy or whenever he needed to escape.
In the story, he once played for hours after a brutal argument with Jessica.
Knowing that now makes Ophelia feel strangely guilty—like she's intruding on something private.
She inhales sharply and rests her hands in her lap.
Kayros speaks again, but this time his voice carries a weight—a dangerous, emotional heaviness that thickens the air around them.
"Your father is a bastard."
Ophelia's eyes flutter, her brows knitting.
The insult hits her unexpectedly, and something hot curls in her chest.
She shouldn't feel anything for the father who never gave her basic affection.
But her mouth still tastes bitter.
"A few hours ago," Kayros continues, fingers pressing lower keys, "he called my father and asked for a change of bride."
Ophelia freezes.
Her head snaps toward him, chest tightening painfully.
"Change of bride?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"There has to be some misunderstanding. Why would my father try to break off my marriage when it's only thirteen days away?"
Her heart slams against her ribs like a trapped bird trying to escape.
Kayros glances at her from the corner of his eye. His expression is unreadable.
But Ophelia looks like she is one breath away from breaking.
"Your elder sister loves me—not Czar."
His voice drops.
"And she wants to marry me."
Ophelia's eyes widen, blurring with raw ache.
Confusion and hurt shadow her face, twisting something deep inside Kayros.
He clenches his jaw and looks away before the urge to smash something takes over.
Ophelia tries to make sense of it.
Her head throbs.
In the story, Ivy Blackwood was supposed to be in love with her fiancé—Czar Volkov.
Not Kayros.
Her throat dries painfully. She stares at her empty porcelain teacup as if it can anchor her.
"Your father offered more assistance and bridal gifts if I chose your sister."
Another knife pierces her heart—one added to a heart already full of wounds.
A bitter smile tugs at her lips, but it only makes her ache more.
She turns her head aside.
"And you accepted?" she asks, her voice sharp with bitterness despite sounding so small.
The light catches in her glassy eyes.
Kayros doesn't answer.
Her nails dig into her palms until pain shoots up her arms—but it's still not enough to quiet the ache inside her.
Just because Ivy wanted it, she gets it.
Always.
While Ophelia barely gets scraps.
Ivy's love for Kayros might be new in this third timeline—but her father's betrayal?
That's a wound Ophelia knows too well.
Her bones scream, her lungs want to explode, but she forces herself to stay still.
She needs Kayros.
Her revenge plan needs him.
So she straightens her spine and prepares herself to manipulate or persuade him—to show him her value.
"I refused, though."
Ophelia's eyes snap open. Her shoulders stiffen.
"Wait—what?"
Kayros turns fully toward her, the sunlight turning his blonde hair into threads of gold.
Ophelia's breathing quickens as he takes slow, deliberate steps toward her.
"Yes. I rejected your sister," he says firmly.
Ophelia's lips wobble. Relief and confusion crash together in her blood.
The feeling of being chosen—for the first time in her life—makes her chest tighten painfully.
Part of her wants to break down and cry until her years of hidden agony spill out.
Yet as Kayros lowers his head slightly, his blue eyes shimmering with words he doesn't speak…
Ophelia still doubts.
No one ever chooses her.
Not when Ivy is an option.
A warmth unfamiliar and fragile makes her fingers twitch atop her skirt.
"Why didn't you choose my sister?" she whispers.
"She's prettier… and she comes with more power than me. Why not her?"
Her voice trembles like a dry leaf hanging on a branch, waiting to be torn away.
Kayros's hands flex behind his back, itching to grab her—to shake her into seeing her own worth.
But he holds himself still.
His voice lowers, softer than snow.
"Because when I say I chose you, I chose you. And no princess will make me change my mind."
A tear slips from Ophelia's eye before she can stop it.
"Stop," she whispers.
Kayros sees the fragile tremble of her shoulders, the slight shake in her hands.
Realization hits him like a cold winter downpour—numbing yet furious.
She turns her head away.
His voice sharpens.
"Look at me."
When she doesn't, he reaches out, touching her chin lightly—just enough to guide her face back to him.
Her flushed cheeks make his chest tighten painfully.
She's trying to be strong.
But her vulnerability…
It makes every protective instinct inside him come alive like wildfire.
He closes his eyes briefly, forcing himself to breathe, to not scare her.
"Ophelia," he says quietly, "you are my fiancée. My bride. Even if it's a contract marriage."
His voice dips lower, brushing along her spine like a touch.
Her fingers curl, clutching her dress tightly.
Kayros's blue eyes sharpen with intoxicating intensity—like he sees through every wall, every trauma, every lonely corner of her soul.
His thumb trembles against her chin, reflecting the turmoil inside him.
"Ophelia… as long as you carry my name, never think I won't choose you. Protect you. Honor you."
He leans in, his breath warm against her skin.
"You are mine. And nobody touches what's mine."
Ophelia's breath stutters. Her heart skips violently.
The thin line of possessiveness in his tone and touch curls heat low in her stomach.
"Do you understand?" he murmurs.
Ophelia nods slowly, trying to calm the sudden fire spreading through her body—but she fails the moment his lips brush her sensitive earlobe.
She gasps—quiet, soft, helpless.
Kayros pulls back with a satisfied smirk.
He barely touched her, yet she feels like her soul has been set on fire—an intense burn she never imagined she could feel.
All the pain about her father…
All the thoughts of Ivy…
Slip into the background like shadows fading at sunrise.
"You smell good," he murmurs, voice tinged with playful warmth despite the tension.
Ophelia opens her mouth to retort—but the butterflies in her stomach make it impossible to speak.
"You're an idiot," she mutters finally, trying—and failing—to sound annoyed while hiding her flushed cheeks.
His low, deep chuckle leaves her speechless and even more flustered.
"Your idiot," he corrects softly,
"until the contract ends."