Page 17 of The Devil's Canvas

Deals are unbreakable. Final. Absolute. I should forget about her, let fate take its course.

But I don’t.

I start to pace, pulse thrumming with something sharp, something I don’t want to name. I don’t find loopholes. I don’t break the rules.

But for the first time, I want to. I don’t care what the contract says.

Cassius will never fucking touch her again. No one will.

She belongs to me. Not because of a deal.

Because fate decided it.

Chapter Three

Ophelia

Irunoutoftheroom as fast as my legs can carry me.

"What the hell happened, Ophelia?" my father says.

"Nothing. Do you know him?" I ask.

"You need to stay away from him. Got it?" he says, without any additional information. Of course, he doesn’t answer my question.

"Fine," I say, crossing my arms, refusing to budge. I won’t give him the satisfaction of walking away first.

My father grabs my arm again, leading me out to the ballroom. I shift this stupid dress around and trip a little over these heels.

The champagne-colored satin clings too tightly, smooth and flawless. The sheer panels at the sides feel like an afterthought—delicate, designed to hint at skin without revealing too much. The neckline plunges lower than I would have chosen, the slit creeping high up my thigh.

I feel like a stripper.

Melanie obviously picked this. It’s elegant, expensive, the kind of dress that should make me look like I belong in this world. But on me, it feels wrong—too polished, too curated, like I’m wrapped in something artificial. Like an accessory to the perfect image she wants to maintain.

The ballroom is a display of wealth more than a celebration. Gilded accents, towering floral arrangements, and polished marble floors that reflect everything back in pristine perfection. The air smells of expensive perfume and champagne, a careful elegance that feels more like a showroom than a wedding.

Paparazzi are everywhere.What a joke.

My father drifts off into the room, probably greeting guests and making his rounds.

I rub the spot on my chest. The mark is there, still burning, still peeking out just enough that I have to adjust my dress to hide it.

I don’t know what this is or if it means anything, but I want it off. Now. It still fucking burns like hell.

"Hey, Lia," I hear. I turn and see Bella walking up to me. In the same bridesmaid dress, it looks just as forced on her as it does on me, at least we match perfectly.

Her dark brown hair is swept up, a few loose waves already escaping, she doesn’t bother to fix them. Her deep hazel eyes dart around, filled with the same discomfort I feel. She tugs at the fabric like it’s suffocating her.

“I hate this,” she mutters under her breath. “You look just as miserable as I feel.”

She just huffs and takes another drink. The music begins, and I look over to see Melanie and Dominic walking onto the dance floor.

She’s trailing behind him, her hand in his, holding her dress. It’s massive, layers of ivory tulle billowing around her like a cloud, shimmering embroidery catching the light with every step. A true fairytale ballgown. The kind of dress meant to take up space, to demand attention, to make sure no one forgets who the bride is. I don’t care about the dress.

I care about the man holding her hand. It hits harder than I want it to.

I press my palm over my chest. The mark tingles, not painful but present—like it knows something I don’t. Like it recognizes something before I do.

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