ODETTE/OPHELIA'S POV
The helicopter banked sharply, and the entire world tilted below me.
For a second, my breath just… stopped.
The dense forest of pines split apart like a curtain being drawn, revealing something that didn't belong in nature. It was too perfect. Too ordered. Roads cut in ruler-straight lines. Buildings arranged with military precision. And in the center of it all, a massive, dark complex that looked like it had been forged from the island's bones—the White Rose headquarters.
From up here, it was a fortress. My new reality.
The main building was all sharp angles and black steel, soaking up the weak northern light. It wasn't just built on the land; it looked like the land had been reshaped to worship it. Neat, obedient gardens sprawled behind it, a garden of white roses that felt like a sick joke.
No escape routes. No weak points. Just the cold, grey expanse of the North Sea surrounding everything, cutting it off from the world.
As we descended, the thump-thump-thump of the blades became the only sound in my head. The buildings swelled, growing from a model into a monstrous, living thing.
A chill, silent and deep, settled in my spine.
Thomas was waiting as I stepped onto the landing pad, his face as unreadable as stone. He led me past guards in black tactical gear, their eyes tracking my every step.
To the left, a five-story black building where new trainees were broken and rebuilt. To the right, more anonymous structures humming with secret purpose. This wasn't just a base; it was a city built on violence.
A grey truck rumbled past us, loaded with long, heavy crates.
"Guns," Thomas said, his voice flat. "And a new synthetic drug batch. Bound for Brazil in three weeks."
My stomach turned, but my face showed nothing. The memory of three days ago was a fresh wound. The engagement gown shopping. The ambush. The cold, calculated truth: my fiancé had tried to have his own family killed and frame me for it.
The air here smelled sterile and sharp—gun oil, disinfectant, and the distant, acidic tang of something burning.
The security checkpoint was an ordeal of its own. Forty minutes of fingerprinting, iris scans, full-body scanners, and pat-downs that felt less like security and more like a claiming. By the time I was cleared, I felt like I'd been stripped bare.
The command center's interior was like stepping onto a spaceship—all sleek surfaces, holographic displays, and silent, efficient people moving through blue-lit halls.
"The Boss wants you in the underwater sector," Thomas said, steering me toward a private elevator.
The elevator didn't have a button. Instead, Thomas pricked his finger and let a single drop of blood fall into a slender glass tube. The doors slid open with a whisper.
We went down.
The world outside the glass walls of the elevator became a deep, pressurized blue. Fish glided past like silent ghosts. We were descending into a capsule city beneath the sea.
The doors opened onto a corridor that ended in a heavy metal door. Thomas knocked twice.
It opened into a room that was the definition of underworld luxury—dim lighting, expensive leather sofas, a bar of polished black marble. And standing at that bar was Raphael Blackwood.
My… father.
He was wearing white gloves. They were stained with fresh, red blood, smeared up to his forearms.
From a closed metal door behind the bar, a raw, guttural scream tore through the quiet—the sound of a man being unmade.
My breath hitched. My palms went damp.
Raphael's eyes—a cold, assessing green—found mine and held.
This is not a story, a voice screamed in my head. This is not a plotline you can skim. The man behind that door is really dying. The blood on those gloves is real. This is your life now.
"You look pale, Ophelia," Raphael said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the thick air.
I am terrified, I thought.
But terror was a luxury I couldn't afford.
I walked to the bar, the scream still echoing in my bones, and poured myself a generous glass of red wine. My hand was steady. Raphael watched, a faint, unreadable flicker in his gaze. He jerked his chin, and Thomas vanished, leaving us alone with the unseen agony next door.
The wine was bitter, like ashes. I swirled it, letting the legs slide down the crystal.
"I'm fine. The trip was just… unexpected," I said, layering my voice with a boredom I didn't feel.
Raphael took a sip of neat whiskey, completely at ease despite the blood on his hands. "Kayros nearly started a war. Clean-up was… messy."
I understood what he wasn't saying. What did you do to provoke him?
I took a slow sip. "I didn't do a thing. Your future son-in-law is just a psychopath."
To my surprise, Raphael didn't argue. He just gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. "Obviously."
I blinked. "What?"
"I said, obviously. It's a fact."
A strange, almost hysterical laugh bubbled in my throat. We were standing over an ocean abyss, next to a torture chamber, and we were agreeing on the character assessment of a mafia prince. This world was insane.
But the moment of weird camaraderie faded. The game was still on.
"Whatever his reasons, we can't wait for his next move," I said, my voice dropping into the cool, cutting tone I used in court—my "devil's advocate" voice. "We need to act first."
Raphael's finger traced the rim of his glass. "He's been aggressive. Shut down half the smuggling routes in the Balkans last week to reclaim stolen weapons tech from Black Wolf. He's not playing."
I'd heard. Black Widow had pulled the heist, but Kayros moved like a ghost and took it all back before they could blink.
A small, sharp smile touched my lips. "Then let's give my dear fiancé a problem he can't shoot."
"How?"
"Whisper in his father's ear. Suggest that his beloved son might have arranged the hit on his beloved wife and stepdaughters. You buried the evidence, didn't you?"
For a long moment, Raphael was perfectly still. Then a low, genuine laugh shook his broad shoulders. "Vicious. I like it. The old man is obsessed with Helen. This would cage the wolf for a while."
I shook my head. "Not confirmation. Just rumors. A seed of doubt. I still have to marry the bastard. I'd prefer his father's suspicion to be a leash, not a reason for him to burn everything down."
Raphael studied me, then gave a single, curt nod. The business was settled.
"Good. Now, find my Underboss in the command center. He'll take you to the strategy room. You start today."
I almost choked on my wine. "Excuse me? Start what?"
Raphael's gaze turned glacial. He moved to the screaming door and placed his blood-stained hand on the knob.
"You said you'll be part of Black Wolf soon. Did you think I'd send my daughter to the wolves untrained? A lamb to the slaughter?"
My jaw clenched. "Afraid I'll embarrass you?"
His eyes, cold and pitiless, locked onto mine. The scream from behind the door reached a fever pitch, then cut off into a horrifying silence.
"Aren't you already embarrassing enough?"
The words landed like a physical blow, precise and cruel.
In that silent, blood-stained room under the sea, I finally understood.
That question… that exact, dismissive condemnation…
It would have shattered the real Ophelia into a thousand pieces.