Page 53 of The Devil's Canvas

Rosalind shakes her head. “I may not have been there, but Bella told me everything.”

My stomach tightens.

“She told me about the guy you danced with. About the way Dominic watched you the whole time.” She pauses, searching my face. “And about how Melanie lost her mind over it.”

I force a small scoff. “Melanie loses her mind over everything. This is hardly special.”

“Is it?” she challenges. “Because what I heard is that Dominic couldn’t stop looking at you, and Melanie could barely stand it.”

I stare at the table.

"She stole him, and she’s still insecure."

I scoff, shaking my head. “She has nothing to be insecure about.”

Rosalind doesn’t blink. She just waits.

I hate that.

I grab my glass of water, taking a slow sip like I can drown out the conversation, like the weight in my chest isn’t growing heavier. She has nothing to be insecure about. She won. She has him. She has everything. So why does it feel like I lost more than just him?

I place the glass down carefully, too carefully, like I need control over something. “Melanie always thinks someone is out to take what’s hers. It’s a personality trait at this point.”

Rosalind hums, unconvinced. “And Dominic?”

I swallow hard. “She already has him.”

Rosalind scoffs. “Why does he keep looking at you like he doesn’t want you to move on?”

The words land like a slap. “I—” I start, but I have nothing to say.

Because I feel it too. I feel it when his gaze lingers too long, when his expression tightens just enough to make me wonder if he regrets it. And I know—I know—that he doesn’t want me to move on. Not really.

Rosalind exhales sharply, shaking her head. “He made his choice, Ophelia. And now he’s sitting in it. You don’t owe him anything.”

I press my lips together. I didn’t push him away. I didn’t betray him. He made that decision all on his own. And now, I can make mine.

Lunch winds down after that, conversation shifting to lighter things—Bella’s work, the restaurant’s incredible dessert, Rosalind’s insistence that I take some leftovers home. But the weight of our discussion lingers, threading through my thoughts as I step outside.

The rain hasn’t let up. It’s a steady drizzle now, soft but relentless, seeping into my clothes and clinging to my skin as I walk to the curb. I pull my coat tighter around me, but it does nothing to shake the chill creeping up my spine.

By the time I slide into the backseat of a cab, my fingers hover over my phone, hesitating. The city blurs behind streaks of water on the window, headlights glowing against the wet pavement. I could go home, pretend none of this is gnawing at me, let it all settle into the pit of my stomach like it always does.

Or I could do something I’ll regret.

I don’t know if this will work. I don’t even know if he’ll answer. But I try anyway.

Ophelia:Julian? Can you hear me?

Julian:Ophelia? Is that you?

Ophelia:Yeah. I thought that we should maybe talk.

Julian:Of course. Where?

Ophelia:Do you think you could come to my apartment? I should be home soon.

Julian:Meet you there.

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