38. Distress. Ophelia pov

I stormed into the house, my stomach twisting with disgust. The weight of everything I had just learned sat heavy on my chest, suffocating. Mason trailed behind me, his voice soft, almost pleading.

"Ophelia, please," he said, reaching for my arm. "You're upset. Just—just sit down for a second. Let me ease your distress."

I didn't want to hear him. Not now. Maybe not ever!

I shrugged off his touch, my body rigid with anger, but he didn't give up. Instead, he stepped behind me, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. I wanted to pull away, to resist, but the way his fingers kneaded into my tense muscles made it harder to hold onto my fury. Slowly, reluctantly, I let out a breath.

His thumbs pressed into the knots at the base of my neck, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to relax. But it didn't last.

A burst of laughter echoed from the living room. A familiar voice, too sweet, too practiced.

Fiona.