Page 64 of Deadly Rival

Her eyes close, and I can’t resist stroking her hair. The silky strands slide through my fingers like water, and it’s weirdly soothing. “My dad thought I was stupid, too.”

Her eyes shoot open. “Aren’t you a genius? Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“I struggled at first, though.” I tap my head. “Severe ADHD. I’m sure it comes as a great shock.”

She smiles, and it’s genuine. “How did you end up here, then?”

“A teacher figured it out and told my parents. The right meds and some private tutoring, and everything clicked. My dad thought I’d follow him into law after all. I got to disappoint him all over again.”

I climb into my bed but settle on the edge so I can still see Ophelia. When I dangle my hand down, wonder of wonders, she takes it.

“I don’t think my dad would have let me be a doctor anyway. Too many late nights and bodily fluids. Not the image he wants for his precious daughter.”

The tired hurt in her voice blurs the curated image of Ophelia I’ve carried with me for ten years. The hard-faced, money-driven socialite. The perfect Calder princess. Nowhere in that image is a sad girl pushed into a role she never wanted, cut off from doing what she loved.

“You can learn medicine here, you know.” I throw it out casually, but it sounds ridiculous, and her incredulous expression speaks volumes.

“Right. I’m sure you people train your sex slaves to be doctors. Makes perfect sense.”

“You’re not—” I cut myself off. She is, and it’s not going to change. “You’re not just that. You can do what you enjoy, too. And if that’s medicine, I’ll make it happen.”

She’s silent for a while, then quietly says, “I’d like that.”

I should be pleased, but it feels off. She agreed too quickly to something that has to sound insane. Maybe she hopes saying yes will give her more time out of the apartment. More time to plan the escape I’m sure she still thinks is a possibility.

I squeeze her hand. “Good, then. I’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow.”

***

Next morning, I wake up early and call down for breakfast. Jacob says I’m lazy because I never bother to cook, but why the hell would I? When the chefs learn how to make tailored prediction algorithms, maybe I’ll learn to make scrambled eggs that don’t taste like rubber. We all have our talents.

The smell of bacon must invade Ophelia’s dreams, because as soon as it arrives, she’s calling to be set free. I breathe through the heady rush it gives me. I’m getting addicted to it, to the constant reminders that she’s in my power.

She dresses in the clothes from her drawer without a word of complaint. The tiny denim miniskirt and pink crop top should be tacky, but she makes them look good. Her long, long legs could keep me entertained for hours. She doesn’t seem half as self-conscious as she used to be. I can’t tell if it’s real or if she’s just getting better at hiding it.

She attacks her food with gusto, and it makes me smile. I wasn’t exactly fair to her during dinner last night—I doubt she even tasted the food. I’ll have to take her again. Or, better still, order the food to be delivered and have it as a picnic somewhere away from the stuffy restaurant.

The direction of my thoughts jars me. Why am I planning fun dates for my prisoner? With the woman responsible for my sister’s death? I should be thinking up new ways to punish her. But as I watch her tear into a chocolate croissant as if she’s been starving for days, the urge to make her suffer is muted to a quiet background buzz.

As Jacob said, I stole her life. Isn’t that punishment enough?

We spend the morning practicing for the ceremony. She picks the words up quickly, but I make her do it over and over again. Maybe I enjoy the part where she has to kiss my hand a little too much. Can I be blamed? If we do it enough times in practice,it should come easily on the day. Muscle memory and rote repetition should take over.

Her eyes keep straying to the clock, and when it nears her appointment at Medical, she blurts out, “It’s almost time to go.”

“I’m well aware of the time. Do this again, perfectly, and you may go.”

She tenses at my little power play but doesn’t dare jeopardize her morning out by arguing. Another perfect run-through, and we’re on our way to Medical. I let her wear white sneakers to protect her healing ankle, and the outfit looks unnervingly like something Quinn would wear. I need to reassess Ophelia’s wardrobe.

The doctor who greets us isn’t the old guy from last night, and Ophelia’s face drops as he says, “I’m sorry. Richard isn’t well this morning. He left an hour ago—food poisoning, we think.”

“Oh.” Ophelia is the definition of crestfallen, and my heart twinges.

The doc—I don’t recognize him, but I’m never in here—says, “Don’t worry. I’ll show you around, if you like. He mentioned you were interested in what we do here.”

“Yes!” Ophelia grins as I wave her inside. “Very.”

They start to chat, and a message comes through on my phone. I cringe at the noise. Another one to add to the growing pile of unanswered messages. It’s from an anonymous sender.

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