CHAPTER 3
1739 Words
Ophelia
The discharge papers felt heavier than they looked. I signed them with a hand that didn’t feel like mine, mimicking the elegant loops of Ophelia’s signature from the documents the shark-woman—whose name I found out is Clara—shoved under my nose.
Leaving the hospital was like stepping into a blender. The quiet, sterile hum of the private suite was replaced by the aggressive flash of cameras and the roar of a crowd I didn't recognize.
Clara pushed me toward a waiting black SUV. Her hand was on my elbow, gripping it with a strength that felt more like a threat than a gesture of support.
"Smile, Ophelia," she hissed under her breath. "You’ve just returned from a relaxing retreat, remember?"
I plastered a fake smile on my face, the kind I used to give the boss at X-Corp when he gave me more work. It felt brittle, like it might c***k and reveal the terrified mother underneath.
Wait, are these people serious? They’re literally screaming her name like she’s a god.
We scrambled into the back of the car, and the tinted windows slid up, cutting off the noise. The interior smelled like expensive leather and a perfume that cost more than my old monthly rent.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. I wanted to ask Clara about Leo, but I knew I couldn't.
If I mentioned a son, the game was over. Reina had a son; Ophelia Queency was a childless, career-driven icon.
The car moved smoothly through the streets, and I watched the city go by. We weren't heading to the slums; we were heading to a penthouse that overlooked the entire bay.
"We need to go over the debt restructuring," Clara said, not looking up from her tablet. Her voice was cold, draining the luxury out of the moment.
"Debt?" I asked. My voice came out a little too high. "I thought... I mean, isn't the company doing well?"
Clara finally looked at me, and her expression was one of pure, unadulterated pity. It made my skin crawl.
"The company is a sinking ship, Ophelia. You know that better than anyone," she said, tapping the screen. "Between the failed tech launch and your personal spending, we are barely keeping the lights on."
I stared at her, my mouth slightly open. The golden girl was broke.
The "perfect life" I had envied from my cracked phone screen was nothing but a house of cards. The silk dresses, the private suites, the Maldives retreats—it was all a lie built on borrowed money.
Are you kidding me? I traded my life for a different kind of disaster. Great job, Reina.
We pulled into the underground garage of a building that looked like a fortress. Clara escorted me to the elevator, her heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete.
"The management team is meeting at six," she said as the elevator climbed. "Don't say anything stupid. Let me do the talking."
She dropped me off at the penthouse door and handed me a key card. She didn't come in; she just watched the door close between us.
The penthouse was silent and cold. It was filled with modern furniture that looked uncomfortable and art that looked like a headache.
I walked through the rooms, feeling like a burglar. I found the bedroom, a space so large it could have housed my entire old apartment complex.
I sat on the edge of the bed and finally let out the breath I’d been holding. My ribs didn't hurt, but my heart felt like it was breaking.
Leo. My sweet, beautiful boy.
Is he okay? Did Vikram take him?
The thought of my son in that house with that monster made me want to scream. I stood up and paced the room, looking for a way out, but there was nowhere to go.
If I went back as Reina, I was a dead woman walking. If I stayed here, I was a ghost in a gilded cage.
I started opening drawers, looking for anything that might give me an edge. I needed information, and I needed it fast.
In the bedside table, hidden under a stack of high-fashion magazines, I felt something hard. I pulled it out and found a small, cheap burner phone.
It was a stark contrast to the gold smartphone on the counter. This was the kind of phone Vikram used when he didn't want me to see who he was calling.
My heart started to pound. I pressed the power button, and the screen flickered to life.
There was only one message in the inbox. It was from an unsaved number, sent only an hour ago.
"The surgery was the easy part. Don't forget our deal."
The blood drained from my face. My hands started to shake so hard I almost dropped the phone.
What deal? What did she do?
This wasn't just about a brain tumor. Ophelia hadn't just been sick; she had been involved in something dark.
I looked around the room, suddenly feeling like the walls were closing in. Every camera in this place, every mirror, felt like an eye watching me.
I realized with a sickening jolt that I hadn't just stolen a face and a failing company. I had stepped right into the middle of a crosshair.
Someone out there knew Ophelia’s secrets. And now, those secrets were mine to keep—or die for.
I walked to the window and looked out at the lights of the city. Somewhere out there, Leo was crying for his mother.
And here I was, dressed in silk, waiting for a debt collector or a killer to knock on the door. The price of this crown was starting to look a lot higher than I could afford.
I threw the burner phone back into the drawer and slammed it shut. I couldn't break down now.
If I was going to save Leo, I had to survive this. I had to become the monster everyone thought Ophelia was.
I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looked back at me with cold, determined eyes.
"Okay, Ophelia," I whispered to the reflection. "Let's see what else you're hiding."
I spent the next hour tearing the room apart quietly. I found bank statements showing millions in the red and letters from lawyers that sounded like threats.
Everything about this life was a performance. Ophelia was drowning, and she had been using her "golden" reputation to keep her head above water.
God, please. Can my life just be normal for five minutes?
The more I found, the more I realized that the "deal" mentioned in the text was probably her last resort. A way to wipe the slate clean.
But what could be worth more than your own life? Or your own face?
A knock on the bedroom door made me jump. I shoved the papers under the pillow and smoothed my hair.
"Who is it?" I called out, trying to sound bored and regal.
"It's the stylist, Ms. Queency," a muffled voice replied. "We need to get you ready for the video appearance."
I took a deep breath and opened the door. It was time to put the mask back on.
I sat in a chair for two hours while people poked and prodded at me. They painted my face and curled my hair until I looked exactly like the woman on the billboard.
As I sat there, I kept thinking about the text message. "Don't forget our deal."
Was the surgery even real? Or was it just a cover for something else?
The shark-woman, Clara, walked back in and handed me a script. She didn't look at the stylists; she just stared at me.
"Read this. Don't deviate. We need the investors to think you're stronger than ever," she commanded.
I looked at the words on the page, but they didn't make sense. It was all corporate jargon and empty promises.
While the stylists packed up, I caught Clara’s reflection in the mirror. She was watching me with an intensity that felt like she was trying to see through my skin.
Did she know? Was she part of the deal?
I felt like I was walking on a tightrope over a pit of vipers. One slip, one wrong word, and I was finished.
When the cameras were finally set up, I looked into the lens and saw my own reflection in the monitor. I looked perfect. I looked powerful.
I started reading the script, my voice steady and cold. I talked about growth and innovation and a bright future.
Inside, I was falling apart. I was thinking about the burner phone and the mystery man on the other end.
I was thinking about the "death sentence" I had just signed for myself. This wasn't a rebirth; it was a trap.
The video ended, and the lights dimmed. The stylists and tech crew filtered out, leaving me alone with Clara again.
"Good job," she said, though her face remained a mask of stone. "They bought it. For now."
She turned to leave, but I stopped her. I had to know.
"Clara," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "What happens if I forget the deal?"
She froze at the door. She didn't turn around, but I saw her shoulders stiffen.
"You won't forget," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous level. "Because if you do, there won't be enough left of you to bury."
She walked out, and the heavy door clicked shut. I was alone again in the silence.
I went back to the bed and pulled out the burner phone. I stared at the screen until it went dark.
I hadn't just inherited a life. I had inherited a war.
And I didn't even know who the enemy was.
I lay back on the silk pillows and closed my eyes. I could still hear Leo’s voice in my head, calling my name.
"I'm coming for you, baby," I whispered into the dark. "I just have to survive this first."
The lilies on the nightstand seemed to wilt in the moonlight. The scent was no longer sweet; it was the smell of a funeral.
My funeral. Or Ophelia’s.
It didn't really matter anymore. We were the same person now.
And we were both in a lot of trouble.
- Writer
