Ophelia will Outrun Her Fate

“You leave before dawn.” Ah. He had finally made his choice. For a man supposedly chosen by the Moon Goddess herself to be mine forever and ever, Ramiro certainly had a talent for making me feel unwanted. “Why? Can you at least look at me when you speak, m’Lord?” Even I surprised myself with how bitter I sounded, yet Ramiro offered no answer. “Your father is on his deathbed, and you choose to send me away? Is it not a wife’s duty to remain beside her beloved husband in times of sorrow?” That finally made him look at me, and I regretted the sarcasm at once. His clear blue eyes were tired, filled with something close enough to grief that I almost forgot I was angry. Almost. Being fated mates did not mean love. I had always known that. I had simply been foolish enough to hope our marriage might become something more. “Please, Ophelia. This is for your own good.” My name sounded unbearably tender on his lips. Traitor. Part of me wanted to demand who had granted him the authority to decide what was good for me. Another part wanted to kneel at his feet and beg him not to send me away. I might have accepted a marriage in name only if it meant remaining beside him. Instead, I chose anger. “Is it because of your lover, that wench Isolde?” “Do not speak of Isolde that way.” Of course. Anything concerning her earned an immediate answer. “Why, dear Husband? Does it pain you?” I asked. “What else should I call a woman already mated who desires another woman’s husband? A w***e?” Ramiro crossed the space between us so quickly that I felt his hand close around my arm before I realized how near his face was. “She is my brother’s wife and the future queen. I advise you to end this nonsense if you wish to keep your tongue intact.” I had wanted to hurt him. Somehow I was the one fighting tears. “Tell me, dear Husband, do you hate me so? Or is your love for that woman so great that you would hurt me, your mate?” Something shifted in his expression. Confusion first, then something sharper. His grip loosened. For one foolish heartbeat, I thought he might finally answer me. “My lord,” a man called from beyond the chamber door. “The King wishes to see you.” Bernan. Ramiro closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, whatever I had glimpsed was gone. “Enter.” Bernan stepped inside and glanced between us. He and Ramiro exchanged one of those practiced looks I had come to despise -- the silent understanding of men who would decide my fate without troubling themselves to ask my opinion. “See to it that Ophelia boards the carriage in time,” Ramiro said. “And make certain she does not leave our chambers before then.” “My chambers,” I corrected. “You have not visited them in weeks, yet you still claim ownership?” His jaw tightened. He looked at me as though there were words caught behind his teeth. None came. He left and slammed the door behind him. “His Highness means well, m’Lady,” Bernan said. “f**k off, Bernan.” I dropped onto the bed with none of the grace expected of a princess. “Now, now. If you are going to cry this hard after all that bravado, perhaps you should not have said half of it. And that is hardly how a princess of this kingdom should speak.” He offered me a handkerchief. I snatched it from him. “Leave me alone until the carriage is ready.” “If my lady wishes -- ” “Can I bring a handmaiden?” Bernan’s expression changed just enough to answer before he spoke. “No, m’Lady. Your ladies will follow once you are settled.” “With how this is going, I ought to think I am being exiled. Where exactly is His Highness sending me?” “I do apologize, but His Highness instructed me that no one shall know.” That chilled me more than I wished to admit. Bernan departed before I could question him further. I sat alone for several moments, staring at the door Ramiro had slammed behind him. Then I did the most pathetic thing imaginable. I wrote my husband a letter. Perhaps ink might accomplish what tears, arguments, and months of waiting had not. I did not ask him to love me. I had finally learned better than that. I only asked him to remember that once, before Isolde and court whispers and locked doors, he had promised to treasure me. By the time Bernan returned, the letter was folded upon Ramiro’s table. “My Lady. It is time.” We left through the empty corridors of the keep. Bernan led me behind a faded tapestry and into a narrow passage known only to the royal household and its most trusted servants. Ramiro used to bring me through these tunnels himself. Back then, he said the keep had too many walls for someone who loved the open air. Once, when a lady at court mocked me for being the daughter of a minor lord and his maid, Ramiro abandoned the royal ball and found me crying in the gardens. When bandits later took me on the road, he defied Tristan’s orders and rode after me himself. Perhaps that was why I had been such a fool. He had given me enough kindness to make me believe it might last. When we emerged into the hidden courtyard, my carriage was already waiting. No ladies. No household trunks beyond what had been packed for me. No explanation. I climbed inside and looked back toward the keep. For one shameful moment, I hoped Ramiro would appear. Instead, I saw Isolde. Golden-haired and still safely within the palace walls. Of course. The carriage door shut. We lurched forward so violently that I nearly struck the opposite seat. “Slow down!” I called. No answer. The wheels hammered over an unfamiliar road. I pulled aside the curtain. The escort I expected was nowhere in sight. My unease sharpened. I reached for the door. Locked. I struck the roof before pounding against the hatch separating me from the coachman. “Sir! What is happening?” The hatch opened. The coachman looked back at me. Not surprise. Not confusion. Guilt. Cold, unmistakable guilt. My stomach dropped. I seized the hatch before he could close it. “Stop this carriage!” He shoved my hand away and slammed it shut. I searched wildly for anything I could use -- a latch, a loose pin, anything -- but the carriage took a sharp bend before I found one. I threw myself against the opposite wall, bracing my arms as the wheels lifted from the road. No. Ramiro had ordered this journey. He had forbidden anyone from knowing where I was going. He had placed me in Bernan’s hands. And Isolde remained behind. The carriage tipped. Surely he could not be this heartless. Ramiro had loved me. At least, I had believed he did.