Ophelia Ashvale's POV
The carriage ride lasted forever and no time at all.
Ophelia sat rigidly on the velvet seat, her hands clenched in her lap, her mind spinning like a wheel with a broken spoke. Outside the windows, the slums gave way to wider streets, then to avenues lined with buildings that got taller and finer with every passing mile. The Baron—her father—sat across from her, studying her face like she was a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for years.
"You have her eyes," he said once, reaching out to touch her cheek. She flinched, and he pulled back, smiling like she'd done something amusing. "Your mother's eyes. I'd forgotten how much you'd look like her."
Ophelia didn't remember her mother's eyes. She remembered a fever. She remembered rain. She remembered alone.
She didn't ask questions during the journey. Her throat felt closed off, like someone had tied it shut with invisible thread. The Baron didn't seem to expect answers anyway. He just kept talking—about his estate, his position at court, his many important connections. His words washed over her like water over stone, smooth and meaningless.
When the carriage finally stopped, Ashvale Manor rose before them like a white mountain carved from bone.
It was so big. Bigger than anything Ophelia had ever imagined. More windows than her entire street in the slums. Gardens that stretched endlessly. Servants in matching uniforms standing at attention like soldiers.
The Baron extended his hand to help her down, and she took it automatically. His grip was warm but firm—the grip of someone used to being obeyed.
"Welcome home, Ophelia," he said.
Home. The word felt wrong in her mouth when she tried to echo it.
A woman appeared in the doorway—tall, beautiful in the way that required expensive creams and leisure time. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. Behind her lurked a younger woman with a cruel curve to her mouth.
"Roderic, darling," the tall woman said, her voice like honey mixed with poison. "Is this...?"
"My daughter," the Baron announced. "Ophelia, this is your stepmother, Lady Margot. And your stepsister, Isolde."
Isolde's eyes narrowed as she looked Ophelia over. The look said everything: You don't belong here.
Ophelia's stomach twisted, but then the Baron's hand was on her shoulder, warm and reassuring, and she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—this was real.
The first day, they bathed her.
Not unkindly. The servants were efficient and professional as they filled a copper tub with hot water that steamed like miracles. Ophelia had never had a hot bath. At the shop, she'd washed in cold water from a bucket, careful to use as little as possible because heating water cost money.
This water was so hot it burned, and she sat in it like she was being reborn.
They gave her a silk nightgown. It slipped over her skin like water, like nothing she'd ever worn. She kept touching the fabric, unable to believe something so soft could exist.
The Baron came to her room that night and sat on the edge of her bed. In the candlelight, he looked almost kind.
"Tell me about your life," he said. "Tell me everything you remember."
So she did. She told him about Marta, about the seamstress shop, about learning to read from discarded newspapers. She told him about dreams of owning her own business someday. She told him things she'd never told anyone.
He listened. He asked questions. He made it seem like he cared.
At the end, he kissed her forehead—something no one had done since her mother died—and whispered, "You're home now. You'll never want for anything again."
She believed him.
The second day, they dressed her in fine clothes. A gown that cost more than Marta made in a year. They did her hair, pinning it up in a style that made her look older, more refined. They gave her breakfast—eggs, fresh bread, fruit, honey. Real honey. Not the watered-down substitute poor people used.
Isolde watched from across the table, her expression unreadable.
"You're quite pretty," Margot said, and it wasn't a compliment. It was an assessment. A threat. "Roderic, she has unusual coloring."
"She favors her mother," the Baron said, and there was something in his voice—something that made Margot go very still.
That afternoon, he took her to his study. It was lined with books and papers, and he showed her his important documents, his connections, his life. He spoke of court politics and noble houses and the Emperor as though these were normal things to discuss with a girl from the slums.
"You're special, Ophelia," he told her. "More special than you know."
She wanted to ask what he meant, but his smile was so warm, and the room smelled like expensive leather and safety, and she just... believed him.
The third day began like a dream.
Breakfast. More food than she'd ever seen. The Baron was particularly attentive—asking about her comfort, if she needed anything, if she was happy.
"Very happy," she whispered, and meant it.
But as the sun moved across the sky, something shifted. The Baron's warmth seemed forced. Margot watched her with cold calculation. Even the servants moved differently around her—with a kind of pity that made her skin crawl.
At sunset, a servant delivered a message: "The Baron requests your presence in his study."
Ophelia's heart should have been calm. She'd been alone with him before. But something in the phrasing—requests—felt different. Felt dangerous.
She climbed the stairs slowly.
The study was dark when she entered, lit only by candles. The Baron sat behind his desk, and the warmth was completely gone from his face. He looked like a stranger wearing a mask of her father.
"Sit," he said.
She sat.
"Ophelia, I need to discuss your future with you."
Future. The word hung in the air like a noose.
"You're to be married."
The room tilted. "I—what? But I—"
"To Duke Silvanus Nocturne. The engagement is already arranged. You'll leave for his fortress tomorrow morning."
Ophelia's breath came shallow and fast. "Who is the Duke? I don't know—"
"The Phantom Duke," her father said, and his voice was completely empty of emotion. "Surely you've heard the stories. Every child in the empire knows them."
She had heard them. Whispered tales told to frighten children into obedience. Tales of a masked man. A scarred monster. A man who—
"Father, I can't—"
"You can, and you will." He stood, and the affection he'd shown her these three days evaporated like morning mist. "Do you know what I had to do to acquire you? Do you have any idea what your existence cost me?"
"I don't understand—"
"Of course you don't. You're nothing. A bastard from the slums." His voice turned cruel, and Ophelia realized she was seeing his true face for the first time. "I didn't bring you here out of love, you stupid girl. I brought you here because you're worth something to someone who matters."
The words hit like physical blows.
"The Emperor himself has requested this marriage. You're going to marry the Duke tomorrow, and three weeks after the wedding, you're going to be dead. Just like his last six brides."
Ophelia stood so fast her chair fell backward. "No. No, you're lying. You said I was special. You said—"
"I lied." He sat back down, picking up his papers like she was no longer worth his attention. "It was easy. You were so desperate to believe someone wanted you. So pathetic in your hope."
The words were knives.
"Guards will escort you to your room. You'll be locked in. Tomorrow, you'll be taken to the fortress. Try not to scream too much when you see what's behind his mask. The last bride screamed quite a lot, I'm told."
Ophelia stumbled toward the door on legs that didn't work. Her mind was fracturing. This couldn't be real. This was a nightmare. She would wake up in the tower room above Marta's shop, and this would all be—
"Oh," her father called as she reached the threshold. "Your stepmother would like her jewelry back. The pieces you borrowed. Give them to the servants."
She was being erased. Already, she was being unmade.
As the guards locked her in her room that night, Ophelia pressed her face against the window and saw her entire life flash past: the seamstress shop, Marta's kind hands, the corner on Miller Street where she'd planned to build her future.
All gone.
By tomorrow, she'd be in a fortress with a masked man who murdered his brides.
And no one in the world knew where she was or what was about to happen to her.
She was completely, utterly alone.