Chapter 3 We're Done

Wyatt's reaction was immediate, his voice slicing through the moment like razors of ice, sharp and unforgiving.

His hand shot out abruptly, securing a punishing grip around Ophelia's wrist, halting her defiant movements. His eyes, piercing and filled with a venomous intensity, bored into her, a reflection of the tempest swirling within.

This was not the aristocratic, indifferent man she had once known. He had transformed into someone volatile and dangerous, all for the sake of the woman he cherished.

Ophelia's eyes misted with unshed tears, her heart a maelstrom of anguish as she stood facing the man she had loved for a decade.

"Yeah," she murmured, her voice trembling yet resolute, "I should have gone mad long ago."

Her hand rose suddenly, unyielding in its trajectory, and landed with a resounding slap against Wyatt's cheek.

"Wyatt, we're done!" she declared, the finality of her words reverberating like the toll of a funeral bell.

It was a truth she had carried in her heart since the day their daughter had perished.

From this moment on, they were through, completely.

Ophelia withdrew her hand, her palm tingling with the force she had unleashed.

A cruel, red imprint marred Wyatt's cheekthe first of its kind inflicted by any woman who dared raise a hand against him.

He gave Ophelia a withering look, his gaze teeming with restrained fury and biting mockery. A sneer escaped his lips. "Hah."

But Ophelia had no interest in prolonging this exchange. With a turn of her shoulders, she strode away.

She didn't need his belief in her resolve; his doubts mattered not.

In his eyes, she was nothing more than a schemeran ambitious woman who had clawed her way into his bed, sacrificing dignity for proximity.

For five years, she had lingered without any titles, tethered to him by chains of her own making.

How would he believe she would walk away now?

*****

Three days later, Royal Mansion.

Wyatt returned home, weariness etched into the deep lines of his face. The house greeted him with an eerie stillnessa silence more oppressive than solitude itself.

Ophelia was gone, and he thought she had taken their daughter, Mia, with her.

His expression darkened as he pulled out his phone and, for the first time, texted Ophelia.

"Come back," he texted, the words succinct and commanding.

But the message failed almost instantly, replaced by an accusatory red exclamation mark and the cruel phrase below it: [Message sent but refused by the recipient.]

Wyatt stared at the screen, speechless.

She had blocked him?

His face darkened even more.

Still holding the device, he dialed her number.

It rang only once before the line was severed.

He dialed again, his calls meeting the same swift rejection. It took several tries before it truly sank inher blockade was thorough. She had barred him from every avenue of communication.

He thought to himself, 'Hmph! Good for her! After everything she pulledstalking me to the hospital, confronting Isabella and Cindy like a woman unhingedI haven't even held her accountable. But it seems her audacity knows no bounds.'

*****

Maplewood Residence.

It had been three days since Ophelia fled Royal Mansion, retreating to the sanctuary her foster mother had left her.

Her foster mother had once been a server at the Sinclair's, tending to Wyatt's grandmother.

When Ophelia, who was at eight, stumbled bleeding out of a corrupt orphanage and into their lives, her foster mother and Wyatt's grandma shielded her from the darkness, deploying every ounce of their power against her tormentors.

In the aftermath, Ophelia was homeless and desperate, and her foster mother had taken her in, and they went to the Sinclair's.

Later, her foster mother passed away and left this place to her.

Ophelia busied herself organizing, clearing, settling into the rhythms of her new normal. After throwing the rubbish, she headed downstairs.

A sudden grip latched onto her wrist, harsh and unwelcome.

The force yanked her backward, leaving her momentarily unbalanced. She stumbled.

Above her, a familiar voice hissed with frustration and fury, cutting through her movements like a blade.

"Ophelia, who the hell gave you the guts to block me?"

Ophelia tried to steady herself and looked up at the man.

Her eyes were completely indifferent, a void of exhaustion and quiet despair.

Her voice was calm yet unyielding as she spoke. "Wyatt, let go."

Wyatt's own expression faltered momentarily as he stared into her deadened gaze.

But his grip only tightened, the muscle memory of control overriding logic.

Suddenly, pain flared fiercely.

Ophelia had struck back in the only avenue left to her.

With precision and force, her heel connected with his foot, digging into sinew and bone.

The surprise of agony loosened his hold. His instincts recoiled, and Ophelia seized the moment to pull herself free.

Without hesitation, she turned on her heels and fled up the stairs, her movements brisk and urgent.

"Ophelia!" Wyatt's growl followed her, low and threatening, heavy with intent.

Three furious strides equalized the distance between them, and before she could react, his hand shot forward once more.

"Don't touch me!" Ophelia barked, her voice layered with pure vehemence. Her reflexes were sharp now, her body twisting itself out of reach. Her actions mirrored distaste so stark it cut into Wyatt with merciless precision.

His tone shifted, laced with something elsesomething smug and almost cruel. "You act like you're untouchable, Ophelia, but tell mesince when have there been parts of you untouched by me?"

The underlying insinuation struck a nerve; the air between them brimming with charged emotion.

Ophelia's face darkened as fury ignited within her. Her fists balled, her skin flushed, and her voice, quiet yet frigid, fired back. "Wyatt, we're done."

It implied that he had crossed the line.

With that, Ophelia turned to go upstairs again.

Wyatt leaned against his car, his gaze following her figure as she fled, face unreadable.

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