Chapter 3
The air raid siren blared across Oak Haven Retreat. Ophelia remained motionless beneath the oak tree, her vacant eyes staring at nothing in particular.
All around her, patients in blue uniforms scattered like frightened birds, some diving for cover, others running in circles.
Those caught by orderlies received swift punishment—a baton to the ribs or a needle in the arm.
Ophelia had only been beaten a handful of times during her three years here.
She'd learned quickly how to become invisible, how to seem harmless despite her sharp mind working constantly behind her empty gaze.
Lost in memories, she slowly lifted her head at an unusual sound cutting through the siren's wail. Her eyes focused on a black dot in the distant sky, gradually growing larger.
A helicopter?
Why would a helicopter come to Oak Haven Retreat?
Within minutes, the sleek black aircraft descended onto the facility's rarely-used helipad. The siren abruptly stopped.
Ophelia watched as the entire administrative staff—the real staff, not the mentally ill patients like her who were diagnosed with "dissociative identity disorder with paranoid tendencies and violent impulses"—emerged to greet the visitor.
"Mr. Weston! What an honor to have you visit our humble facility!" The director's face contorted into a sycophantic smile as he extended his hand, only to have it completely ignored by the tall figure emerging from the helicopter.
The man was striking—golden hair casually falling across his forehead, partially obscuring piercing blue-gray eyes. His features seemed sculpted by a master artist, combining aristocratic elegance with unmistakable power.
Blake Weston. Every person in Silver Bay knew that name.
The CEO of the Weston Group, one of the world's most powerful financial conglomerates.
At barely twenty-five, he controlled global economic arteries. Rumors claimed that when his finger twitched during international economic forums, stock markets worldwide responded.
And yet here, in this forgotten corner of human misery, most patients wouldn't recognize him at all.
Ophelia had only glanced up briefly, but to her surprise, Blake, flanked by his entourage, was walking directly toward her.
She froze, her habitual nail-biting suddenly halting mid-motion.
What was happening?
Blake stopped directly in front of her, his mouth curving into a dangerous smile that had broken countless hearts.
He reached down, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist with unexpected strength.
"And this is...?" He asked, not bothering to look at the director.
The director dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. "Mr. Weston, this is one of our patients. Specifically diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder, paranoid delusions, and violent tendencies. Though she's usually quite docile, she just sits under that tree like a mushroom. She was admitted three years ago. No family or friends visit her."
Blake's assistant, Lucas, cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Her name?"
"Ophelia... Ophelia Hayes," The director quickly added.
"Ophelia Hayes?" The beautiful but cruel lips slowly tested the name, interest flickering in his eyes.
She was still, but her mind raced. Why was he interested in her?
"This one. Have her cleaned up before bringing her. Remove any trace of filth." Blake wiped his hands with an antibacterial wipe, every movement radiating disgust.
Lucas nodded sharply, clapping his hands twice. Immediately, three or four female attendants with downcast eyes stepped forward, lifting Ophelia by her arms and leading her toward the facility.
Half an hour later, when Ophelia emerged, she wore a fresh patient uniform. Her waist-length chestnut hair fell in smooth waves over her shoulders. Despite her blank expression and seemingly innocent demeanor, she looked transformed.
Blake frowned slightly. "Are there no other clothes for women in your facility?"
The director hastily explained, "Mr. Weston, I apologize. We have no other women's clothing here. This is the best we can offer."
Looking at Ophelia's long hair cascading over her shoulders, her vacant yet somehow pure expression, and her delicate features, Blake reluctantly accepted the situation.
"Take her."
The entourage turned, and no one noticed the flash of calculation that crossed Ophelia's eyes for just a split second.
She had been desperate for an escape opportunity, and now this man—for whatever reason—was providing one.
Wherever he was taking her, it had to be better than Oak Haven. Once outside, she could find a way to disappear.
At Pine Ridge Estate, from the moment she stepped onto the property, Ophelia found herself surrounded by servants who scrubbed, styled, and measured her from head to toe.
Fashion designers, hairstylists, makeup artists... they swarmed around her, recording her measurements and preferences while she maintained her vacant expression.
Here, Ophelia finally experienced what it felt like to be treated like royalty.
Yet she maintained her blank facade. She was still playing the role of a mental patient. Any slip could be dangerous.
After all, she still didn't know why Blake had chosen her.
The door clicked open, and the servants immediately halted their activities.
"Mr. Weston," They acknowledged in unison.
Lucas gestured subtly, and they all withdrew, quietly closing the door behind them.
Blake had changed into casual loungewear, sitting on a wide brown leather sofa, massaging his temples with those elegant fingers.
"Come here," He commanded.
For a moment, Ophelia didn't react, playing her role perfectly. Then, as if remembering, she slowly moved toward him.
Just as she approached, a powerful grip pulled her down onto the sofa beside him.
Blake narrowed his eyes, studying her meticulously. "I forgot. You're just a simpleton. How much can you possibly resemble her? It's your good fortune."
His deep, cultured voice delivering such condescending words stirred a desire in Ophelia to slap him.
But she maintained her facade. If Blake discovered her deception, the consequences could be severe.
Besides, who was "her"? Was Ophelia someone's replacement?
Blake continued staring at her for several moments before leaning forward. His chin rested in the crook of her neck, his warm breath caressing her sensitive skin.
She instinctively shrank back slightly, only to be pulled closer by his arm around her waist.
There was no space between them now.
Blake inhaled deeply, almost reverently. "So soft. After more than ten years, I'm finally holding you again. And you're warm now, not cold. That's good."
Ophelia's heart raced at this unexpected intimacy with a stranger.
Every part of her felt uncomfortable, but she suppressed her reaction with all her willpower.
Suddenly, Blake grabbed the back of her neck, his beautiful eyes threatening as they bore into hers. "Your swallowing is disturbing me."
What was she supposed to do? Stop breathing?
Ophelia wanted to roll her eyes, but before she could think further, Blake lifted her into his arms and tossed her onto a bed.
After sleeping on the hard mattresses of Oak Haven Retreat and the Hayes Mansion, this was her first experience with such luxurious bedding.
It felt incredible.
Was this how the Hayes family lived? In such comfort? Her gift to them had been far too merciful.
A dark thought had barely formed in her mind when a broad figure pressed down on top of her.
Instinctively, Ophelia's hands pushed against Blake's chest, creating distance between them. Their proximity made her deeply uncomfortable.
This was the first time Blake had heard any sound from her.
A spark of interest ignited in his eyes.