Ophelia couldn't do it.
These ginger biscuits, for one.
But also moving in with Digby.
She nibbled on the corner of a biscuit, listening as Digby paced in the kitchen, barking into the phone about some Swedish stock. His business phone, clearly. His other phone — the personal one — sat on the table in front of her, envious of its twin sister's importance.
Ophelia pulled a face.
God. This biscuit was awful.
She set it down on the plate, her stomach churning. She had thought it was a chocolate bourbon when Digby set it down, but she had been tricked. Who came up with ginger biscuits, anyway? Satan?
Ophelia rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans.
She had hoped to avoid this conversation. When Digby first asked her to stay in London and move in with him, she had assumed that it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. But then Digby had asked her again, two days ago, and Ophelia knew that she had to confront it head on.
She loved London. Truly, she did.
But she didn't love Digby — and that was a problem.
Ophelia sighed, rising to her feet. Abandoning the heinous ginger biscuit, she drifted closer to the bookshelf, scanning the titles to distract herself. Dickens, Austen, Kant — Digby's battered copy — Thackeray... She smiled as she recognized an autobiography on Van Gogh; Andrew's book, obviously.
She reached for Kant's "A Critique of Pure Reason," flipping it open to the first page.
Property of Andrew Hazelton-Scott.
Ophelia frowned. What the...?
She flipped it over, baffled. A terrible sense of foreboding was creeping over her skin, and she re-shelved the book. She reached for "A Tale of Two Cities" next; it had the same phrase scrawled at the beginning.
She tried another book. Then another one. They all had the same phrase: Property of Andrew Hazelton-Scott.
What the actual hell?
Digby stalked into the room. "I'm so sorry, darling." He kissed her on the cheek. "Swedish people are so god damn sensitive. I made one comment about his hair needing a cut soon, and suddenly he's—"
"Do all of these books belong to Andrew?"
Digby froze.
Ophelia could see it all play out on his face: the panic, the guilt, and then the fear. Digby's eyes flicked to the copy of Kant in her hand. He seemed to be assessing how much she knew. How much he could get away with.
"I shouldn't have lied," Digby said quickly. "But I wanted to impress you, Ophelia. You're so smart and I—"
"Have you even read Kant?"
"Er." He paused. "No?"
Ophelia closed her eyes. Rage was building like a tidal wave, and she stalked to the bookshelf, ripping out the copy of Dickens. "And this?" She waggled it in his face. "You haven't read this either?"
"Well," he hedged, "I watched the film."
That was the last straw.
"You know what, Digby?" she snapped. "I hate fancy restaurants. Hate them. I think oysters taste like slimy boogers."
Digby stared at her as if she had started shouting at him in Latin. "Okay, then. We'll try somewhere more pedestrian. There's no need to get so worked up about it, darling."
She gritted her teeth. "And I hate when you do that."
"What?"
"Treat me like an idiot," she huffed. "What if I did want to choose a restaurant? Or what if I wanted to stay in instead of going to some stupid ball? Would you give me a choice?"
Digby sighed. "I'm just trying to be a gentleman, Ophelia. Isn't that what you want?"
She froze, the copy of Kant hovering in her hand. Well, yes, actually. That was what she wanted, wasn't it?
Or maybe it wasn't.
Maybe Ophelia didn't want someone to fuss over her as if she was a delicate porcelain doll. Maybe she didn't want someone that assumed the women would drink tea in Scotland while the men went out shooting. Maybe she wanted to hang up her own damn coat for once.
The revelation was sharp and painful as a paper cut.
"I don't," she whispered.
"I—what?"
"I don't," Ophelia repeated, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Digby, but I can't move in with you." She carefully reshelved the copy of Kant. "I can't be with you at all."
"But I—"
"Here." Ophelia unhooked the ruby bracelet, holding it out towards him. It was a lovely gesture, she thought, but it symbolized everything that was wrong in their relationship. Ophelia lived for words and stories; Digby, for glittering jewels and things you could touch. "You can have this back, too; I can't take it back to Canada. It wouldn't be right."
Digby stared at her. "Good lord. You're serious about all of this."
"We don't make any sense, Digby. Our entire relationship is based on a lie. Can't you see that?"
"But I..." He looked suddenly lost, like a sleepy child standing on top of the staircase, stunned out of a dream by a loud noise. He took the bracelet. "I don't understand. Is this because I don't like reading?"
Ophelia softened. "Take care, Digby." She kissed him on the cheek. "And thank you."
And with that, she stepped out the door and into the blazing London sunshine. After all, she had packing to do — and a plane ticket to book.
Andrew was terribly confused.
He frowned, glancing at the phone. It wasn't so much the phone that was confusing him — it was ringing, which meant someone was calling — but the number. The Caller ID was blocked. And the number was from Canada.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel.
Technically, Andrew shouldn't pick it up. Distracted driving, and all that. But he was still on the back roads of Cornwall, and the only thing he was at risk of hitting was a stray pheasant or an errant plastic bag.
Andrew sighed. Oh, sod it.
He punched the accept button, then switched it to speakerphone.
"You've got Andrew."
"Really?" The voice sounded amused. "That's how you answer your phone?"
Andrew almost drove off the road. "Sophia?"
"Who were you expecting?"
"Not you."
"Fair enough," Sophia said. "I wasn't exactly planning on calling."
Instantly, Andrew's surprise was replaced by panic. Sophia Huntington hated him. There was only one reason that the girlfriend of his ex-nemesis would be ringing him, and it was because she couldn't get hold of Ophelia. He took a sharp left turn.
"Is everything alright? Is Ophelia—?"
"She's leaving for Canada."
"What?"
"And she's packing," Sophia continued. "Right now."
Andrew's heart plunged to the road, run over by screeching wheels and metal. He forced himself to take a shuddering breath.
"And?"
There was a pause. "What do you mean, and?" Sophia demanded. "And you're in love with her, aren't you? So go tell her, before she leaves."
"I—" Andrew sputtered. "Well, I..."
God, what was the bloody hell was happening? Andrew always had words. And how on earth did Sophia Huntington know that Andrew was in love with her cousin? For fuck's sake, he hadn't spoken a word to Sophia in almost a year.
This was a dream.
It had to be.
"Andrew?" Sophia sighed. "Are you still there?"
"I'm not in love with her."
She snorted. "Yes, you are; Ophelia's been writing me letters for months, you know. It doesn't take a genius to read between the lines."
"You don't understand." Andrew licked his lips. "Ophelia and I... we've not promised each other anything. You've made some sort of mistake."
Andrew patted his jacket; he could feel Eleanora's ring burning a hole through his pocket. Like a small, scary plasma blade.
"Oh, for god's sake," Sophia sighed. "Look, I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but you need to get your shit together, Andrew. That girl is far too good for you, but for some reason, she actually likes you." She paused. "Make me realize why."
And with that, Sophia hung up the phone.
Ophelia stuffed a sweater into her suitcase.
Stupid Digby. Stupid London. Ophelia stalked over to her closet, yanking out a black blazer. It wasn't that she was mourning the loss of Digby, exactly — she hadn't been in love with him — but she was mourning the loss of something.
Her own romantic notions, maybe.
Andrew had been right all along.
Prince charming, fairytale romance, love at first sight — all of it existed solely in fiction. The only things that crawled out of storybooks were the monsters.
There was a knock at the door.
Ophelia paused, a navy peacoat in her hands. Digby? But, no; he wouldn't want to see her. It was probably Louise, armed to the teeth with wine and bad romcoms. She swung open the door and then froze.
"Andrew," she whispered.
Ophelia hadn't seen him in weeks. She couldn't help but drink him in eagerly, to study every change that she missed: his blond hair was longer, and there was red paint under his nails. He looked worn out. Exhausted.
"Your father," she blurted. "I'm so sorry. How is Frank? Did you get my—?"
"Are you leaving?"
Ophelia paused. How on earth did Andrew know about that? Digby must have told him; it was the only rational explanation.
"You heard about the break up, then?"
Andrew's face drained of blood. "The what?"
She paused. Ah. Shit.
"Digby and I broke up," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "Just now."
"I'm going to kill him," Andrew growled, starting for the door. "I swear to god, if he hurt you, I'll ring that bastard's neck—"
Panic gripped her. Unthinkingly, Ophelia launched herself forward, wedging herself between Andrew and the exit. "Stop it! Andrew, I mean it. I'm fine."
"Get out of my way, Ophelia."
"It's already done."
"It certainly isn't," Andrew said, exasperated. "Christ, Ophelia, you could be a little bit more annoyed about it." He flexed his hands, as if he was forcefully restraining himself from knocking her out of the way. "The love of your life just broke your heart."
"No, he didn't." She glared up at him. "Calm down, okay? You're acting insane."
"I'm acting insane?"
"Yes!"
"You're acting like you don't even care!"
"Because I don't!" Ophelia snapped. "I don't, okay?" Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. "I broke up with him, you idiot. And I couldn't give a damn about it because — well, because—"
Andrew moved closer. "Because?"
She dropped her eyes. "You know why."
"Say it."
She shook her head. Gently, Andrew tilted her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to meet his black eyes. "Say it, Ophelia."
But it was no use; she was frozen. Andrew might as well have been trying to draw words out of a marble statue at Pemberley. He seemed to realize as much, because he blew out a breath, resolve hardening on his face.
"God help me," he murmured.
And then, before Ophelia had a chance to protest — before she even had a chance to draw breath — he swooped down and captured her mouth in a hungry, desperate kiss.
He might as well have cut open one of her veins; hot blood shot through her body, almost painful in its intensity. Ophelia's head collided with the door, but she no longer cared. No longer cared about anything except for Andrew's hands on her hips, his lips crushing her mouth, the spicy scent of his cologne.
This is a bad idea, she thought dizzily. I should stop.
But she couldn't.
Flames were made to smother. Cities were made to drown. Everything was made to be destroyed eventually, and he was her undoing.
She kissed him back with equal ferocity, knotting her hands in his hair. Andrew groaned — low and throaty — shoving her harder against the door. This must be how drug addicts felt, she realized. Desperate for their next hit. Willing to throw away everything for it.
Andrew murmured her name against her lips, over and over, the words like a feverish prayer. His mouth found her neck, sucking hard at the skin. Almost desperately. She flattened her palms against his chest, running her hands eagerly over his body—
Her fingers collided with something.
A box.
Instinctively, Ophelia pulled back. Andrew redoubled his efforts. There was a sort of savagery to him, Ophelia realized, her heartbeat spiking. There was no love in this; he was kissing her as if he loathed something, although it was unclear exactly what or who.
She shoved him away, panting.
Andrew blinked at her dazedly. "Ophelia..."
"What's in the box?"
"I—what?'
"The box." She nodded to his jacket, her lip wobbling. "I can feel it through your jacket, Andrew. What is it?"
Ophelia ducked under his arm. Andrew was still braced against her door, his chest pumping up and down, his hands splayed on the wood.
There was a terrible, horrible pause.
"It's a ring," she whispered. "Isn't it?"
His spine tensed. "Does it matter?
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I don't just want part of you," Ophelia said sharply. "Don't you get that yet?" She scooped a white t-shirt off the floor, holding it in front of her like a shield. "Tell me this, Andrew: are you still planning to propose to Eleanora?"
He remained silent. Ophelia smiled bitterly.
"Thank you," she said. "For being honest. I would rather receive no heart than half a heart; false hope will kill you."
She twisted around, shoving the t-shirt into the suitcase. Andrew leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "So what happens now, then?"
"I leave."
"Now?"
"Yeah," Ophelia said, deadpan. "My private jet's just out back." She stuffed a handful of books into the suitcase. "No, obviously not now; I leave next week. But I think..." She stared down at her new Dickens book; the one they had bought together. "This is the last time I want to see you, Andrew. It's too hard, otherwise."
"Ophelia—"
"Just go, Andrew," she whispered. "Please."
There was a long pause. Then Ophelia heard the click of the door, and she collapsed on her bed, staring down at the book with stinging eyes.
A/N: Hello lovely readers!
Okay, so like a total idiot, I thought today was Tuesday (*face palm*) — I'm going to blame it on pandemic brain (is that a thing?). Since I was supposed to update yesterday, I'll be doing a double update today! Yay!
I also want to give a quick shout-out to the readers that messaged me to see if I was alright. You guys are fabulous, and you make writing a joy :)
Affectionately,
J.K.