Three days.
That's how long Ophelia had been in the southern guest wing, long enough to memorize the wallpaper pattern, the sound of the fountain from the inner courtyard, and the way the staff avoided eye contact like she carried something contagious.
She wasn't confined. No one had locked a door or issued a threat. But no one had told her anything either. She wasn't welcome. She was tolerated.
And still, she waited.
Every morning she got up early, braided her hair neatly, applied just enough concealer to look composed without seeming vain, and waited for someone to give her a reason to be here, other than humiliation. But no summons came. No trial. No audience. No one even spoke her name. She'd tried asking once if she could see Lucas. The maid hadn't even flinched. She just said the Duchess had not permitted it and closed the door behind her like a final breath.
And now, on the fourth morning, Ophelia stood again at the edge of the breakfast salon like a bad memory.
