“Fine,” I say, hearing another student ring the counter bell, leaving only seconds until we might be discovered. “Appointment and price of repair.”
I can’t risk another expulsion, especially not on the very first day. Dad would be ropeable and Chelsea would quickly forget my name.
“And…?” Hope edges into Ophelia’s voice, but her posture has relaxed. She knows the rest is a shot at the stars.
I release my grip and walk away, pausing at the doorway for one last look. “And if you truly want a grand on top,Snowflake… you’ll have to earn it.”
There’s a bounce in my step as I head for my car. I’ve had plenty of fragile girls before. They’re my favourite. Prowling their boundaries until they let me too close, then watching the snap in their eyes as they break.
But Ophelia…?
I’ve always been able to read people, play them, yet in five minutes flat, she completely overturned my first impression.
Despite my parting shot, she clearly won today’s battle, and for the first time in months, maybe years, something unfurls inside me.
Anticipation.
Like I’ve stumbled across a puzzle worth solving.
Reaching the carpark, I get in the driver’s seat and gun the engine when a couple of students pass too close for my liking.
Staying parked, I watch Ophelia make her careful way to the bus stop. She unfolds a cane and holds it across her body, a sign for the driver.
Her low vision presents a challenge. I use my looks even more than my dad’s money, and if her vision’s as compromised as the oversized sheet music suggests, I’ll have to work harder. A forage through my cologne collection is certainly in store.
All thoughts of Dad’s impending merger are pushed aside, and I consider how else I could impress her. Jewellery, maybe? The subtle clink of a heavy platinum chain.
This will take actual effort, but I’m up for a challenge.
And when I turn out of the driveway, I don’t turn towards my affluent hilltop suburb and home.
I join the flow of traffic behind Ophelia’s bus.
CHAPTER THREE
OPHELIA
After dinner,I sit on my bed, back propped against the rigid headboard. Grunge metal thunders through my earphones, the distorted guitars drowning out any lingering unease.
My thumb hovers over Damien’s social media profile, each swipe revealing another layer like I’m peeling back skin. His confidence radiates from every enlarged pixel, and my throat tightens when his laugh echoes from a short video, velvety rich. Power throbs from the screen, and why wouldn’t it?
Damien Kade is rich.
Not just ‘well-off’ or ‘sorted’ but a jaw-dropping level of obscene wealth.
Which is why the quote I have queued up in my documents isn’t from the optometrist where I got my current pair of glasses. It’s from the preeminent low-vision specialist in the city, and the feature list reads like sci-fi.
Zoom ability, contrast adjustments, colour enhancements—the works. Technology I hadn’t even known existed and could never afford from my mother’s sporadic support.
I want them so badly, but a warning bell clangs in my head. Damien’s comment about earning my suggested thousand in cash sent a strange quiver through my midsection. An echo of my reaction when he said my wriggling made him hard.
Fear. It must be.
But it isn’t quite the same. It feels more like fascination. The same as if I think of handling a tarantula or a large snake.
Revulsion, yes, but mixed with a dangerous allure.
A dichotomy that led me here, trawling through his socials, searching for insight.
