His Nemesis, Her Heartbreak

Ophelia’s POV:

“Ma–ma?”

The voice was fragile, barely a whisper, yet it acted like a bolt of lightning through my spine. I jolted upright, nearly knocking the stool over. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I blinked away the blurriness of exhaustion, my eyes darting to the corner of the room. This wasn't even a proper bedroom; only a cot and a few shelves in a carpeted white room where Raymond allowed me to sleep with our daughter on the "occasions" he deemed me too irritating to be in the master bedroom.

The only light in the room came from a single lamp perched on the edge of what I was forced to call a "desk." It was, in reality, nothing more than a rickety wooden stool and a makeshift side table I had scavenged from the attic. My neck ached from where I had been dozing off over stacks of paperwork.

I had begged him for a proper desk, a place to manage the freelance translations I did to keep a few secret pennies in my pocket. But to Raymond, every request was an act of war. To him, my presence here was already an act of charity.

“You’re an Omega, Ophelia,” he would sneer. “Be grateful for all that I provide you with.”

I scrambled off the stool, my legs stiff and cramping, and hurried to the small cot. I fell to my knees, my hands trembling as I reached out to touch her forehead.

“Mom’s here, love. I’m right here,” I whispered, my voice filled with a terror I couldn't hide.

The moment my skin met hers, my heart dropped. She was burning up.

It had been three days since the fever started. It had begun as a light flush, a seasonal sniffle I thought I could manage. But it was stubborn, refusing to break despite the medicines the doctor had prescribed. I had spent the last seventy-two hours regulating her temperature as best I could.

In the past whenever this happened, by the third day her fever usually subsided.

But this... this was different.

“Oh God. Ria, baby, look at me,” I urged.

Her eyes remained lidded, her long lashes casting ghostly shadows against her deathly pale cheeks. My mind raced, spiraling into a dark place. She was already so fragile. Because of her constitution she hadn't even learned to walk properly, though she had celebrated her third birthday five months ago. She was brilliant, her mind sharp and observant, but her body was too weak.

The doctor’s words echoed in my mind once again. “It’s a conflict of blood, Madam. Raymond’s Dominant Alpha genes are fighting against your Omega markers. It’s an extremely rare case. She will likely recover if she reaches puberty and shifts, but until then...”

Until then, she was a glass doll in a house made of hammers. And it was my fault. Everything bad that happened to her felt like a direct consequence of my existence, a punishment for my sins.