The soft patter of footsteps breaks the tension. Dad’s attention shifts, and his lips curve into mocking amusement. “Damien’s music tutor, I take it?”
Ophelia stands in the doorway, her damp hair leaving dark patches on her shirt collar. Her fingers twist together, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
“Ophelia.” She steps forward with an outstretched hand. “Yes, we’re in music together.”
I beckon and she runs to my side. My arm slips around her, pulling her warm body firm against my hip.
My father’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t be Priscilla’s daughter, would you?” At her nod, his head tilts, considering. “I remember her bringing you along to a party at the Weissberg’s house, years ago. Babysitter cancelled. You were a strange little thing.” His lips twitch, gaze raking over her. “But you’re beautiful now.”
“Dad!”
“What? I can’t tell a young woman she’s gorgeous?”
“Not when you’re older than her mother and I’ve got my arm around her.”
He pulls down his mouth, accentuating the deep lines there. “I’ll just wait a fortnight then.” His eyes fix on Ophelia, calculating, hungry, then he jerks his chin at me. “This one goes through girls in a few weeks, but you’re still welcome here after he’s done. I could show you my basement playroom.”
My throat squeezes, but before I can choke out a word, Ophelia frowns. “Is that where you broke your son’s arm? Hard pass.”
The veins at Dad’s temples visibly pulse.
“You’re drunk,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll drop Ophelia home and we can talk when I get back.”
His jaw tightens, then he gives a stiff nod. “I’ll be in my study, working out details for the Impaglia merger.”
The deliberate use of Chelsea’s surname makes me wince, and he strides from the room, heels clicking loudly on the Italian marble tiles.
Even after his footsteps fade and the distant door closes with a thud, my muscles remain locked in place. “I’m sorry you—”
Ophelia laughs, high-pitched, but it punctures the stifling atmosphere. “For real? With all the awful things you’ve done and never said a word about, you’re offering an apology for him?”
My eyes rest on her face, taking comfort from her defiance. A deep satisfaction fills me when I gaze down her legs, swimming in my discarded boxers. The fabric hangs loosely on her slender frame, almost reaching her knees.
“I couldn’t find anything else on short notice.”
“They’re perfect.”You’re perfect.
My fingers twitch at my sides. The need to escape my father’s house becomes overwhelming. I grab her hand and drag her towards the garage. “Come on.”
“You’re eager to get me home.”
“Fuck your far-too-easy-to-break-into home.” I wrench the Jaguar’s door open, bundling her inside. “I’ve got a better plan.”
Through the journey along the winding driveway, Ophelia sits quietly beside me, her borrowed boxers bunching beneath her as she draws her knees up to her chest, teeth nibbling at her thumbnail.
Instead of choosing the road down, I head higher into the hills, winding along deeper curves, steeper angles, until the two-lanes merge into a hard-packed dirt road. Either side of us is open sky, the rugged tussock and clay of the expansive terrain so vast and uncomplicated after the claustrophobic perfection of my father’s mansion. A final turn leads us into a pine forest, then a clearing right near the cliff edge; the wooden balustrade set a metre back its only safety net.
My knee bumps Ophelia’s thigh as I lean across and fumble in the glove box. “Used to come up here and smoke when things got too dire.”
Then my fingers land on the tin box I stashed during the small hours of the night, holding it up, triumphant.
“Now get in the back seat and take those clothes off. I wasn’t anywhere near finished when my father so rudely interrupted.”
“And what if I’m no longer in the mood?”
“Snowflake, if you don’t know the answer to that by now, you haven’t been paying attention.”
Ophelia shifts into the back but leaves her clothes in place, never granting me full compliance. I tug down the boxers, licking up the inside of her thighs, tasting salt and sweetness.
