Revenge Of The Jilted Bride (Ophelia) novel Chapter 1

Ophelia Sinclair was dead.

Her body weighed down with sandbags, had been tossed into the icy depths of the sea for three days, but even in death, her spirit clung on.

It was as if her emotions had run too deep and too raw to keep her soul anchored, and grief itself had become the chain that bound her. She felt the crushing pressure of the water, the suffocating stillness that surrounded her like a silent scream.

Suddenly, there was a splash—a single burst breaking the dark, endless blue of the ocean. Ophelia's soul, caught in a haze of confusion, could just make out a dark figure swimming toward her, cutting through the inky blue. The ripples in the water stirred something in her—a flicker of recognition, though her consciousness hung on the edge of oblivion.

'Is that Kenneth?' she thought, her heart—or what was left of it—stirring. 'We've been divorced for three years. What could he possibly be doing here?'

Through the blur of ocean water, Kenneth Sinclair reached for her, his face strained with anxiety. His strong arms encircled her cold, lifeless form, pulling her to the surface with a force driven by something deeper than mere survival.

Desperation etched in every muscle, he pressed his lips to hers, which were now swollen and pale, as he tried to breathe life back into her. His chest heaved, each breath carrying a desperate plea, a silent command for her to return to him, to fight against the pull of death itself.

His face was hardened and unshaven while his strong jaw was stubbled. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, brimmed with pain, though he tried to mask it with steely determination.

He unfastened the sandbags dragging her down and then carried her to shore. With shaking hands, he knelt beside her, his voice breaking as he gave her mouth-to-mouth and pressed down on her chest in a futile attempt to restart her heart, over and over. "Ophelia, you're not dying on me. Wake up, damn it. Wake up..." His voice cracked, frantic.

Water droplets dripped from his soaked hair, mingling with the tears streaming down his face, falling onto Ophelia's ghostly pale cheeks. She had never seen him so defeated, so undone.

Beside him, his assistant's voice quivered, her eyes reddened with unshed tears. "Mr. Kenneth, Miss Ophelia is... She's gone."

Kenneth's hands froze mid-press, and he slumped forward as if the life had been sucked out of him too. His fingers, long and graceful, shook as they brushed a strand of hair from her face. He cupped her cheeks gently, as if holding something too precious, too fragile.

"No, she isn't," he whispered hoarsely by her ear, his voice barely audible, more to himself than anyone else.

He leaned down and wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing his cheek against her cold forehead. "Elia, you never liked me touching you, remember? You'd always push me away when I hugged you like this. So why aren't you pushing me right now?

"Please, just open your eyes and look at me, just once. I don't care if you want me to stay away from you forever or if you want me dead. As long as you're alive, I'll do whatever you want. Just, please..."

He begged like a man who had lost everything, his pleas spilling out in broken whispers, over and over, as if the sheer force of his will could bring her back.

By the time night fell, the waves crashed rhythmically against the shore, indifferent to the tragedy playing out on the sand.

A group of bodyguards, clad in black, arrived with two people—their hands tied. They were forced to kneel before Ophelia's lifeless form.

Her spirit stood silently, watching from the side. One of the captives was Miles Lewis, the man she had loved so deeply. The other was Emily Hastings, the woman who had taken everything from her.

Ophelia's thoughts drifted back to three days ago. After being drained of her final worth by the Hastings family, she was sold to a sadistic man in exchange for their own gain.

In her desperate flight, Ophelia wound that man. She ran to Miles for help, only to be betrayed by Miles, who she trusted. He handed her back to that monster, where she endured unimaginable torture before finally being stabbed to death—over and over—bleeding out on the cold floor.

"Elia, let me get your revenge. Alright?" Kenneth's voice was soft, so soft that it barely touched the air, as if he was unaware the body he was holding was no longer alive.

Miles' eyes widened in terror, muffled screams coming from behind the black tape over his mouth. He shook his head, pleading for mercy with every fiber of his being.

Next to him, Emily's wedding gown was soaked in blood, her body barely clinging to life, covered in gaping wounds.

Kenneth lifted Ophelia's limp hand, placing a gun in her grey, lifeless palm and aiming it at Miles. At that moment, the world around Kenneth faded to a hushed silence, a serene stillness that belied the chaos within him.

Then, the deafening gunshots shattered the air, drowning out the seagulls' cries and penetrating the blowing wind with a chilling finality. It was a cacophony so piercing that it seemed to slice through the very fabric of reality, reverberating in everyone's ears like a haunting melody of despair.

Kenneth fired the gun in rapid succession. Each shot hit non-lethal spots with precision, but found the most excruciating parts, the agony written all over Miles' face. He couldn't scream. The pain was endless, unbearable—almost worse than death itself.

Kenneth's voice was cold now, devoid of all emotion as he rose to his feet. "Bury him."

The implication hung heavy in the atmosphere, dark and suffocating. He meant for Miles to be buried alive, to suffer in silence, encased in earth, deprived of light and hope.

Just then, the Hastings family came rushing to the shore, their faces pale with panic. "Emily, don't be afraid. Mommy and Daddy are here to save you!" Emily's father's voice cracked as he tried to sound brave, but the tremor in his words betrayed his fear.

'How ironic,' Ophelia thought. 'They arrived so quickly this time. Too bad they weren't so eager to help when it was me.'