Ophelia's POV,
I ran.
Up the stairs, down the corridor, cursing his name under my breath like it might burn him through walls. I didn't blame Dante. Not really. How could he know what I'd survived when I'd built my life on never letting anyone see the cracks. Still, anger clung to me like smoke. Loud and bitter and familiar.
I shut the door to my room and leaned against it, breathing hard. Then I started undressing, movements sharp, mechanical, like shedding armor I was tired of carrying. When I finally looked up, the mirror was waiting.
So was she.
The girl they said had been fixed. Bought. Rebuilt.
I stepped closer. My reflection didn't flinch, didn't lie. I hadn't had surgery. I never had. The weight, the softness they mocked, had been poison dressed as care.
Pills my stepmother had called supplements. Said they would help me glow. Said they would make me stronger.
Adrian had taken me to Locke when the truth surfaced, and the drug had been stripped from my system like a parasite.
Not surgery.
Never surgery.
I lifted my hand and pressed it to the glass.
That was when the tears came. Quiet at first. Betraying me.
I'd never cried.
Not when Vivian's hands were cruel and efficient. Not when Isla burned my hair and laughed. Not when Liora climbed into my bed and stole my future. I'd used up all my tears the day my father died. My favorite person. My safety. After that, I'd learned to swallow pain whole.
But standing there, naked and exposed to my own history, something split.
I cried for the girl who survived anyway.
For the woman who had outrun her past only to have it drag her back by the ankle. I cried because the world had decided my strength was theft. Because cruelty was louder than truth. Because effort, when it came from someone like me, offended them.
My knees gave out.
I slid down the mirror and laughed once, broken, before the sound turned into a sob.
My forehead met the glass once. Then again. Then again. The sound was dull at first, almost disappointing. I hit it harder. Again. Again. The mirror spider-webbed, then shattered, glass raining down as pain finally bloomed and warm wetness slid down my face.
I screamed in pain and cried.
It ripped out of me, raw and animal, the kind of sound you make when something inside finally breaks. I raised my head to do it again when…
Arms wrapped around me from behind.
Strong. Desperate. Shaking.
"Stop," Dante begged, his voice shaking against my hair. "Please. Stop."
I froze, breath stuttering, my body still trembling with the urge to hurt, to punish, to make the noise in my head quiet.
"I'm here," Dante said, his voice breaking apart. "I'm here. Don't do this. Don't… Oh God, don't."
I hadn't heard the door open. I hadn't heard him run in.
He pulled me fully against him, turning me so my bleeding forehead pressed into his shoulder instead of the broken glass. One of his hands cradled the back of my head, careful, protective, shielding me from myself.
"Hit me," he begged hoarsely. "If you need to hurt something, hurt me. Please. Not you."
My body gave out.
The strength drained all at once, leaving only sobs so violent they bent me in half. I wailed loud as he sank with me to the floor, holding me together while I came apart. I clutched his shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
"I didn't mean it," he said over and over, words tumbling out in panic. "I was cruel. I was wrong. I was angry and I wanted to hurt you and I did. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He shifted carefully, gathering me onto his lap, one arm around my waist, the other still protecting my head. I barely noticed the sting of glass or the blood anymore. All I could feel was his heartbeat under my cheek, fast and unsteady.
He kissed my tears away, one by one, reverent, apologetic. He rocked us gently, like he was afraid I might shatter again if he stopped moving.
"Breathe with me," he murmured. "That's it. Slow. I've got you. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you. Not even you."
My sobs softened into broken breaths. My body grew heavy, exhausted by grief.
"I see you," he whispered, voice thick. "I know who you are. And I won't let the world take you from me. I promise."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Sleep crept in quietly, mercifully, pulling me under while he held me, rocking back and forth on the bedroom floor, whispering promises into my hair like prayers he was terrified of breaking.
And for the first time ever, the noise in my head…finally stopped.