Page 3 of Breaking Ophelia
We arrive early, take our usual seats and wait. For once, The Board is on time… apparently our guests require more timelines than a bunch of ragamuffins.
Abelard sits and watches us.
A sharp rap at the door interrupts our thoughts as one of the Board says, “Enter.”
The temperature drops a few degrees when the Billionaires make their entrance. No trumpets, no pageantry. Just a precise ripple in the room’s geometry—the way the light bends around them, the way everyone in the chamber straightens withoutmeaning to. Three men, two women, all in black. Not the black of funerals, but the kind you see in the pit of an open grave.
Their faces are blurred by the flicker of torchlight, but it’s intentional: you remember the suits, the posture, the cut of their hands. One has hair so white it looks like it should belong to a corpse, another is so young the Board members seem to wilt in his presence. All five wear the same signet ring. I recognize the crest, even though it’s supposed to be a secret. It’s the hand that writes the checks, the hand that signs the death warrants.
The Academy funders.
A retinue of servants—silent, desperate—fan out, pouring vintage brandy into glasses that cost more than most houses. The scent is sweet, almost syrupy, and it clashes perfectly with the chemical tang of torch smoke and old stone.
The Billionaires don’t sit. They don’t need to. They won’t be here long. They let their brandy swirl, barely touching the glasses, as if even that is beneath them.
One speaks, voice thick with old money and older expectation. “The Academy’s traditions have served us well. But the Pineridge deviation is troubling.” He says it like he’s ordering a rare steak.
The Board shifts, a collective tensing that’s almost musical. Abelard’s jaw pulses; Ms. Valence’s lips peel back, shark-smooth. “The boys of Pineridge,” Abelard rasps, “broke oursacred covenant. They refused to complete their Hunts. They took the ritual to their resort. Bastardized it.”
Ah, yes. The Pineridge boys, who didn’t want to participate. The reason the Night Hunt was on hold… until now.
The young Billionaire lifts his glass, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “And yet, their bloodlines are robust. Their alliances, intact. Maybe there’s something to their... innovation. Seems choosing your own mate has it’s perks, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quiet, you insolent child. Do not forget you are here in your father’s stead.”
The Board doesn’t know whether to bristle or bow. Julian covers a laugh with a cough; Bam’s hand curls around his glass until I hear it creak.
“They made a mockery,” Valence hisses, “of everything we built. You do not experiment with legacy.”
A woman leans in. “Sometimes, experiment is the only path to dominance. Unfortunately, their choices have put them outside of our purview, meaning their matches are useless to us. We had so hoped to use Noah’s legacy to enhance our power, but it appears Kairo and his dogs refused to bow. Such is life. We will rebuild.”
The room tilts, just a little. Everything within Westpoint has always been precise, measured. There are three parts to make the Academy run smoothly.
The Board: who cling to ritual, to hierarchy, to the lie that power flows down predictable channels. A training center to funnel wealth, control and prestige to those who are deemed worthy.
The Billionaires: who are the flood that erodes the banks, takes over stock exchanges, buys power with money and corruption.
The Vicious Kings: who are the mafia that protect the funders from unscrupulous actors. They also deal with defectors.
I watch, listening. Observing. Every twitch, every glance, every held breath. Rhett meets my eye, lips twisted. He wants to see this burn.
Always in the middle of chaos, Rhett is.
Colton barely moves, but his gaze tracks the youngest Billionaire’s hands.
The conversation becomes a fencing match.
Abelard sighs, “Deviation weakens us. It breeds contempt. Contempt breeds rebellion.”
The leader smiles with his teeth. “Rebellion breeds winners. Every generation is built on the graves of the last.”
Rhett, unable to help himself, “Sounds messy. I like it.”
“Silence, pug.”
The Board recoils, but they’re outflanked. The Billionaires circle the table, never breaking eye contact with their targets. The message is clear: this is their arena now, and the Board just a set of aging referees.
Julian leans back. “What’s the point of all this, if everyone cheats?”
