Chapter 8: Ophelia’s POV

The next evening was the one Arthur had chosen to take me to the banquet.

The silver gown in the mirror clung to every inch of me, and I gathered the skirt in my hands and came down the stairs. In the parlor Arthur stood with the skin beneath his eyes bruised a deep violet; he jerked at his tie in irritation, and the faint smell of tobacco hung on his suit. Sylvia was beside him, her face plastered with a thick layer of foundation that still could not hide the weariness ringing her eyes or the purple-black bruise raised on her forehead. The hallucinogen had clearly done its work. She must have spent the long night being torn at by beasts.

When she saw me descend, her face twitched. A venomous light stabbed out of her eyes, as though she wanted to flay the skin from my body. "This is the last chance you'll ever have to wear that dress," she said between her teeth.

At once I drew my shoulders inward, twisting my hands together uneasily, and let moisture gather in my eyes. "Why, Sylvia?" I asked timidly, the tears hovering on the edge of falling.

"You don't know why yourself?" Sylvia gave a cold laugh, her chest heaving violently. "I don't know what back alley you crawled through to get your hands on that thing, and you never once stopped to ask whether you were even worthy of it. If there weren't so many powerful people at tonight's banquet, and I weren't afraid your miserable, penniless look would bring shame on the Hayes family, do you think you'd have any right to wear it?"

The tears rolled down right on cue.

"That's enough," Arthur cut her off, frowning.

He did not care in the least about Sylvia's cruelty; he cared only whether this striking dress of mine could help him fetch a good price. "Ophelia, mind your bearing. When you meet people at the banquet, smile. Don't put on that mournful face and embarrass me," Arthur said, sweeping me a cold glance before turning toward the door.

The driver was already waiting outside. Arthur got in first, and Sylvia followed behind him. I kept my head down and climbed in after them, silently counting my steps. One, two, three, four. In the second before Sylvia bent to get into the car, I soundlessly drew close to her back. The cold wind blew past, and in a voice so low that only she could hear it, I spoke softly against the curve of her ear.

"Sylvia, my mother came to see me last night. She said she's so cold, and she wants to come and have a talk with you."

Sylvia's spine went rigid in an instant.

"Ah—!"

A shrill scream split the quiet of the estate. Like a mad dog whose spine had been trampled, Sylvia lurched backward, her high heel catching on the flagstones, and she fell to the ground in a wretched heap. Arthur's nerves, already stretched nearly to breaking, were set alight by that scream. He rolled down the window and roared, "What the hell are you going crazy about now?"

Sylvia lay on the ground, her pupils shuddering violently. She stared at me fixedly, her lips trembling, a gurgling sound rising in her throat, yet she could not piece together a single complete syllable. Terror had crushed her fury.

I had guessed right. Her hands were absolutely not clean in my mother's death.

I paid no attention to Sylvia shivering on the ground. I turned to Arthur with an innocent smile, gathered my skirt, and quickly slipped into the car. Sylvia stood frozen in the cold wind for a full half minute before the security men helped her up and into the carriage. The whole way there, a dead silence filled the cabin. Arthur rested with his eyes closed. Sylvia huddled in the corner, her face ashen, not daring even to look at me.

The top-tier business banquet was held at the Windsor Hotel in the heart of Night City. The car came to a stop, and the attendant pulled open the door. Arthur stepped out first, and I followed him onto the red carpet. But the instant I stepped down, the clamor of conversation stalled for several seconds.

Countless gazes swept toward me. The scent of perfume, cigar smoke, and expensive liquor mingled in the air. The finely dressed socialites and the suited magnates looked me over with appraising eyes. I lowered my chin slightly and held my back perfectly straight, the silver hem of my gown flowing with the glitter of crushed diamonds beneath the chandeliers.

"Arthur, is this your daughter?" someone asked, approaching with a glass of champagne.

Arthur at once summoned a hypocritical smile and went to meet him. "Yes, Ophelia. She was frail as a child and was recuperating in the countryside. I only brought her back recently. She doesn't know the rules yet—I'm afraid I've made a fool of myself before you."

"Not at all. Your daughter is truly radiant." The man smiled, though his eyes wandered over my neck and waist.

I lowered my head at just the right moment, playing the part of a beautiful, timid ornament. Arthur led me through the crowd, and every pause was a display with a price tag attached. As for Sylvia, she had long since vanished. Out of the corner of my eye I caught her pulling several society ladies aside in a corner, gesturing excitedly in my direction, her lips moving. I did not need to hear it to know what she was saying—nothing more than that the girl was eerie, that she was a jinx. Unfortunately, no one would believe a madwoman.

Soon Arthur stopped before a man. "Mr. Richard," Arthur said, his waist bending into a fawning curve.

I lifted my lashes. The man before me was perhaps in his forties, wearing a suit stretched tight across his body. His neck was so thick that the outline of his chin was nearly invisible, and his face was all slabs of flesh. What was most revolting was his gaze—murky, greedy, carrying an undisguised carnal hunger, like a wild boar staring at a trough of swill.

"Arthur, that project you mentioned before—I'm still considering it," Richard said slowly.

Arthur immediately pushed me forward. "Mr. Richard, there's no hurry about the project. Tonight I mainly wanted to introduce my daughter to you. Ophelia, pour Mr. Richard a drink."

Richard stepped forward. A heavy wave of cologne struck my face, laced with a faint, fishy rankness. His greasy lips curled into a disgusting arc, and he extended that thick, stubby hand. "Miss Ophelia, you're truly beautiful. Shall we go have a drink together on the sofa over there?"

Arthur, as though granted a great pardon, immediately stepped back. "You two chat—young people should get to know each other. I'll take my leave first."

He walked away without a moment's hesitation, selling me to this fat pig in exchange for a little more life for his failing cash flow. Richard's breathing grew heavy. He did not even wait for my answer; that sweaty, fleshy hand reached for my waist.

I lowered my eyes and was just about to speak.

The clamor of conversation around us suddenly fell quiet. Some people closed their mouths in unison; some straightened their bodies yet lowered their eyes; some froze with their glasses halfway to their lips. Richard's hand, reaching toward me, stopped dead in midair. I could see clearly the cold sweat seeping onto his forehead, his thick neck turning stiffly.

Following everyone's gaze, I looked toward the entrance of the banquet hall.

The doors were pushed open respectfully by two rows of black-clad bodyguards. The cold wind from outside poured in.

And a man stepped into the light.