Chapter 2
Ophelia’s POV
Six years Later.
The ballroom glittered with an almost surreal opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast light across the marble floors while elegantly arranged wildflowers provided bursts of color. The room pulsed with the beat of music from a renowned DJ mixing modern rock with electronic beats that felt both sophisticated and energizing.
I watched Lisa, my bestie, twirl across the dance floor, her face flushed with happiness as she laughed with our colleagues. She'd gone all out for her birthday celebration, booking one of the most exclusive venues and ensuring every detail was perfect.
"Ophelia!" Lisa danced her way back to me, pulling me away from my observation post near one of the elaborately decorated columns. "It's my birthday, you have to enjoy yourself!"
I smiled, genuinely happy to see her so carefree. "Of course! I'm having a great time."
"You've got that analytical look again," she teased, linking her arm through mine. "This is the most exclusive venue in Beverly Hills, and we all have rooms here tonight. No excuses—we're partying until we can't stand up!"
"Sounds perfect," I replied, letting her infectious enthusiasm wash over me. "It's nice to escape the usual routine for a night. Let’s enjoy ourselves!"
By midnight, the party had reached its crescendo. The music had grown more energetic, bass vibrating through the marble floor as colored lights swept across the crowd.
Lisa appeared at my side again, this time with two brightly colored cocktails that looked both beautiful and potent.
"Special birthday concoction," she announced proudly, pushing one into my hand. "The bartender created it just for tonight."
I eyed the drink skeptically. "Lisa, I'm already feeling a bit dizzy... I rarely drink actually..."
"That's exactly why you need this!" She clinked her glass against mine. "Tonight, we don't talk about patients or surgeries or medical journals. Tonight, we get properly drunk! Come on, drink up!"
The cocktail was dangerously smooth, sweet with underlying complexity that masked its considerable alcohol content. I felt the warmth spread through my chest as I finished it, surprised by how pleasant it was.
I didn't notice when the party began to thin out, when the others started making discreet exits or when the music shifted to more subdued tracks. My perception had narrowed to immediate sensations—the cool glass in my hand, the persistent thump of music, the comfortable numbness spreading through my limbs.
"Ophelia," Lisa's voice penetrated my alcohol-induced haze. "Are you okay? Want me to walk you to your room? I've already arranged a VIP suite for you."
I straightened my posture with exaggerated care, determined to prove my competency. "I'm fine... I can get there myself... 5858... yes, 5858."
Lisa's brow furrowed with concern. "Are you sure? Isn't your room 5588?"
"No... it's 5858," I insisted with the absolute certainty that only extreme intoxication can produce. "I remember very clearly... neurological training... excellent memory..."
Lisa looked dubious as she watched me sway slightly. "If you're sure. Do you need help?"
"Absolutely not," I replied with alcohol-induced dignity. "I can manage perfectly well... I'm a trained professional, after all."
She hesitated before nodding. "Text me when you get to your room safely, okay?"
"Certainly," I promised, already turning toward what I thought was the exit, though it might have been the path to the restrooms.
The journey through the hotel lobby felt like navigating an obstacle course. The elegant marble floor seemed to undulate beneath my feet, and maintaining a straight path required more concentration than a delicate brain surgery. The few late-night guests I passed gave me wide berth, likely recognizing the determined gait of someone trying very hard to appear sober.
"Good evening, madam," the elevator attendant said politely as I stepped—well, stumbled—into the elevator. "Which floor?"
"Fifty-eight," I enunciated carefully, leaning against the mirrored wall for support.
"Very good," he replied professionally, though I caught the slight knowing smile as he pressed the button. I wondered vaguely how many intoxicated guests he transported each night.
The elevator's swift ascent made my head spin further. I closed my eyes, focusing on drawing steady breaths.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a plush corridor lined with elegant sconces that cast a warm, golden glow on the textured wallpaper. I stepped out, immediately veering left before correcting my course with exaggerated care.
"Room 5858," I muttered to myself, trailing my fingers along the wall for balance. "Five... eight... five... eight..."
The corridor seemed endless, the identical doors multiplying before my eyes. I squinted at each number plate, the digits swimming in my vision.
"5886... 5887..." I paused, blinking hard to focus. The next door read "5888"—close enough, surely? I noticed it was slightly ajar, which struck me as perfectly convenient rather than concerning.
Minor numerical discrepancy, I thought, alcohol corrupting my usually impeccable attention to detail. Spatial recognition affected by intoxication... perfectly normal...
I pushed the door open, stepping into a vast suite that was significantly more luxurious than I'd expected. The entry opened into a spacious living area furnished with elegant contemporary pieces. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering skyline, city lights stretching to the horizon.
"Wow," I murmured, momentarily admiring the view before continuing my unsteady journey toward what I assumed was the bedroom.
I stumbled over what might have been an ottoman, catching myself on a sleek side table that wobbled precariously. Moving with the careful deliberation of the thoroughly intoxicated, I made my way to the bedroom door and pushed it open.
The bedroom was bathed in the silver-blue glow of the night sky. The enormous bed dominated the space, covered in what appeared to be high-thread-count cotton sheets.
In my alcohol-impaired state, I failed to notice several critical details: a designer suit jacket draped over a chair, expensive cufflinks on the nightstand, a man's watch worth more than my monthly salary, and most importantly, the distinctive shape of a person beneath the luxurious duvet.
Instead, my foggy brain registered only one thing: bed equals sleep.
I began unfastening my dress with clumsy fingers, the elegant fabric slipping through my hands as I struggled with clasps and zippers.
"Lisa... tonight was wonderful," I mumbled to no one as I stepped out of my dress, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor. "I drank far too much... hope the nurses don't notice tomorrow..."
Down to my underwear, I approached the bed with the single-minded focus of someone desperate for horizontal rest. The mattress felt wonderfully soft as I sank onto it, not immediately registering that the surface seemed unusually uneven.
"Mmm, this bed isn't flat," I muttered, shifting position. "The hospital beds are all full again..."
I reached for the duvet, intending to pull it over myself, when my fingers brushed against something warm and distinctly hand-shaped. My alcohol-dulled reflexes took several seconds to process this unexpected development.
Before my brain could fully comprehend what was happening, a deep, authoritative yet familiar voice broke through the darkness.
"Ophelia?"