Page 85 of Porcelain Grave

I stare at the woman in the painting, and for a second, I feel like I'm looking into a mirror. I didn't inherit a single fucking thing from my father—not the eyes, not the jaw, nothing of that monster. I am a carbon copy of her. Marguerite is breathtaking, draped in a heavy, Gothic Victorian gown of midnight black silk and intricate lace that looks like frozen spiderwebs. The collar is high and stiff, the sleeves billowing before tapering into delicate buttons at the wrists, and the bodice is cinched tight, giving her that haunting, ethereal silhouette.

A cold shiver runs down my spine as I realize something. I know that dress. I own that gown. It was one of the few things I had when I had nothing else to wear, a relic of a life I barely remember. I've worn it a thousand times, feeling the ghost of her skin against mine.

I reach out, my fingers trembling as I trace the painted fabric of the gown. My eyes blur, hot tears pricking the corners. I’m not just a mistake; I’m a memory.

I force myself to keep moving, but I’m clinging to Rhys now, my fingers locked tight in his hand, my other hand wrapped around his bicep like a lifeline. He doesn't mind; if anything, he seems to enjoy how I am clinging on to him.

He leads me into the living room, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. The living room... It’s blindingly white—cream carpets, ivory walls, pale furniture. It feels sterile, like a gallery, and in the center of it all is a group of people waiting for me.

They’re all dressed in fine, expensive clothing, looking like the pinnacle of British aristocracy. The moment we step inside, the room goes dead silent. They all freeze, rising from their seats in unison, their eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes me want to bolt.

Rhys is the first to break the silence. He doesn't sound like the psychotic bastard who tears clothes off me in greenhouses; he sounds composed, almost polite, though there's still that possessive edge to his voice. He looks toward the elderly couple, whose eyes are already brimming with tears.

"Arthur Hansburg, Eleanor Hansburg," Rhys says, his voice echoing in the white space. "Here is your granddaughter, Ophelia."

The small woman—Eleanor—trembles. She looks like a fragile piece of porcelain that might shatter if the wind blows too hard. She walks toward me, her steps hesitant, and then her hand reaches up, her fingers shaking violently as she cups my face. She brushes her thumb over my cheek, feeling my skin, then runs her hand through my hair as if checking to see if I'm actually real.

"You look just like her," she whispers, her voice cracking. "You look exactly like Marguerite... exactly as she was before she was taken away."

Before I can even get a word out, before I can tell her I'm terrified, she pulls me into a crushing, tight hug. She smells like old roses and expensive soap.

"I'm your grandmother," she sobs into my shoulder. "I'm your mother's mother, my baby."

She pulls back just enough to hold my face again, staring at me with a desperate need to memorize every line of my face, before she pulls me back into another hug—tighter this time, affectionate and fierce.

Finally, she lets me go, though she keeps a hand on my arm, and she turns to the old man. "Go on, Ophelia. Say hello to your grandfather."

I turn to him, my heart hammering against my ribs. He’s leaning on a polished walking cane, his face etched with years of grief and longing, tears streaming openly down his cheeks.

"Hi... hi, grandfather," I whisper, my voice small and shaking.

He doesn't say a word at first; he just opens his arms wide. I don't hesitate. I rush into him, colliding with his chest and sobbing into his tweed jacket. I hold onto him for dear life, as if he's the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.

He wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tight, his voice a broken, ragged rumble in my ear.

"My little one," he chokes out. "My little one. You're home. You've come back to us. You've finally come home.”

My grandfather doesn't let go. He holds me for what feels like an eternity, his grip surprisingly strong for a man of his age. I can feel his chest heaving with silent sobs, the fabric of his tweed jacket damp against my cheek.

"My brave, beautiful girl," he rasps, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe you're actually here. We never stopped looking, never stopped hoping that Marguerite could have left a little something behind that has a piece of her. You're safe now, Ophelia. No one is ever going to hurt you again. I swear it on my life."

I just cling to him, sobbing into his shoulder, feeling a strange, foreign sensation in my chest. It’s not the suffocating grip of fear or the jagged edge of panic—it’s something softer. Something that feels like belonging.

Eventually, he pulls back, though he keeps a protective arm around my shoulders. He gestures toward two middle-aged men standing nearby. They both have the same soft eyes as my grandmother, though they look a bit more rugged.

"These are your uncles, Ophelia," he says. "Julian and Alistair."

Julian is the first to step forward. He’s got a kind face and a mischievous glint in his eye. He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on my clothes. "Blimey, look at you," he says with a warm, crooked smile. "You even like the Victorian dresses, don't you? Just like Marguerite. A proper little goth, eh?"

I can't find the words, so I just give him a small, shaky smile. He doesn't wait for a response; he pulls me into a hug that smells of tobacco and expensive cologne. It’s a firm, grounding embrace, the kind that tells me I’m part of a pack now.

Then Alistair steps in. He’s the more reserved of the two, his expression solemn. He reaches out, his thumb gently brushing away the stray tears on my cheeks with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten.

"You've had a hard road, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice like velvet. "But you're not walking it alone anymore." He pulls me into a hug, and I lean into him, feeling the sheer weight of the family I never knew I had.

Then comes the chaos. They introduce me to my cousins—three boys and a girl, all of them between nineteen and twenty-two.

"I'm Leo," the oldest says, grinning as he gives me a quick, friendly squeeze. "This is Marcus, Toby, and the menace over here is Clara."