Page 49 of The Devil's Canvas

I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I need to see it for myself. Maybe I need proof. But the second it starts, I know. They’re right. This is a problem.

Melanie’s voice is perfectly measured, perfectly cruel, designed to cut without leaving a mark. And the world eats it up—the audience, the headlines, the people who will never know me but will believe every word of hers. My chest tightens, a slow, sinking weight settling inside me.

I’m so unhappy in my life. Why? Why can’t I be happy? Why can’t I just let someone make me happy? My fingers twitch against the keyboard. Maybe Julian could do that.

The thought hits too fast, too hard, and I swallow it back just as quickly. But first—first, I need to do something.

I click on my email, scanning the name I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since it arrived.

Rhys Westwood. Investigative reporter.

I want to do a story on the Arden and Arden-Forsythe families. I have reason to believe that Melanie Arden’s success wasn’t entirely earned. If you're interested in helping, let me know.

Underneath, he left his phone number. I don’t hesitate. I type out a message and hit send before I can second-guess it.

Hi Rhys. This is Ophelia Arden. Let’s talk.

Chapter Ten

Ophelia

I’manxiouslyexcitedtomeet Rhys in person. We’ve spoken a few times on the phone. He’s investigating my family. He said he wants to talk face-to-face.

Not going to lie, that freaks me out.

I don’t love the idea that there is actually something for him to find.

The coffee house he picked is tucked between two brick buildings, the kind of place you’d only notice if you were looking for it. Dim lighting, scratched wooden tables, the air thick with espresso and something sweet baking in the back. It doesn’t draw attention, which I guess is the point. Far enough that I won’t get caught. Close enough that I can disappear if I have to.

Rhys is already here, seated near the window, fingers drumming idly against a ceramic mug. His eyes scan the room like he’s expecting to be caught—or like he’s the one doing the catching.

He looks just like his byline photos—dark, unruly hair, sharp blue eyes that miss nothing, a posture that says he’s listening even when no one’s speaking. He doesn’t just observe stories; he unravels them, pulls them apart until there’s nothing left hidden. And now, for whatever reason, I’m the story he’s waiting for.

I walk over and slide into the seat across from him.

"Hi, Rhys," I say.

"Ophelia," he acknowledges, his gaze assessing, scanning, filing me away like evidence.

A beat of silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable—just measured.

"You always meet your sources in places like this?" I ask, glancing around at the nondescript coffee shop.

"Safe. Public. Neutral," he replies easily. "Harder for someone to disappear without a trace."

I raise a brow. "Reassuring."

"Depends on who you are."

"And who am I?"

He takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes flicking back to me. "That’s what I’m here to find out."

I lean back, crossing my arms. "Actually, you said you have something for me."

"I do." He sets his mug down, fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic. "I found something about your sister. And your father."

That surprises me.

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