by D. S. Ryelle
“Finish your breakfast. Mr. Osborn is waiting.”
She flushed when she realized that Andrew had caught her staring. The fact that he usually stonewalled her made Ophelia long for the days she had spent with David.
~*~
For once, Harry was glad that Ophelia was related to him. From the way her gown of amethyst velvet fell across her curves, to the way her eyes alternately sparkled and snapped; Harry suspected that his sister was a danger to any man that met her.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The amethyst and silver slave bracelet on Ophelia’s left hand momentarily distracted him. “That’s not your engagement ring,” Harry remarked.
“You are not the only one who makes stupid decisions.”
Seeing her brother’s curious expression, she added, “Eduardo broke off the engagement. He decided that I was too close to David for his liking and that the possibility of marrying me was not worthwhile.”
That might explain the change in bodyguard, Harry thought.
“You have failed to answer my question,” Ophelia said after a moment.
“You implied that I was an idiot. You’re right.”
“I never said that you were an idiot. I said only that you have made some stupid decisions in the past.”
“Regardless, there’s no excuse for the way I’ve treated you.” Harry sighed. “You seemed to have a perfect life. Dad never made any secret of the fact that sending you to Mom’s old school was the best idea since OsCorp. He always said you were brilliant…”
“First in Irish, first in English, second in Spanish, second in science, third in mathematics and second in history, art and music,” she remarked idly.
Harry shook his head. “Then you came to the reading of Dad’s will and the attorney tells me that not only have you been living virtually on your own since you were fourteen, but that you are—or were—the second most popular designer in Australia!”
“And then there is Máthair.”
“Mom? Yeah! The fact that she’s actually been alive for the last nineteen years and no one has bothered to tell me just pisses me off!”
“Do you think that Athair would have allowed you to see her, even if you had known?”
“That’s not the point!”
“True. You were heading for was a complete admission of your jealousies.”
“Do I need to keep going?”
“I am beginning to wonder why you started,” Ophelia replied. “It does not take a theoretical physicist to see your shortcomings.”
“Huh?”
“You are transparent, Harry.”
“Oh.”
Ophelia glanced at the grandfather clock that stood in the corner opposite them. “I would like to push you into something you are not prepared for, but I must request that we wrap this up.”
“What do you mean?”
Ophelia did her best imitation of people she had heard on the street: “Look, are ya gonna apallagize or what?”
Harry laughed, then tried to mock her stately pronunciation: “If you are requesting that I make an appeal for forgiveness in light of my earlier errors, than I shall do so forthwith!”
He stood and made a funny little bow. “I humbly apologize for my inadequacies.”
There was a knock at the door and Bernard peeked into the room.
“Mr. Whitaker asked that I remind you of your ten o’clock appointment.”
“I will begin preparing shortly,” Ophelia replied. She turned back to her brother. “Please stop by the tower this afternoon—we have much to discuss.”
~*~
“It has been nearly a month.”
Ophelia maintained her view of the Manhattan skyline. “I am still unready to make peace.”
“You spoke to the brother you haven’t seen for nearly nineteen years without coercion. I believe you’re ready to speak to me.”
“Harry is still unaware of the information that you seek.”
David strode forward and spun her around. “I want to know what the hell is going on, Ophelia!”
She bit back on the standard “you wouldn’t understand!” and indicated her desk.
“The rose folder.”
Her bodyguard picked up the folder and—at Ophelia’s further indication—read the contents. At length, she sat down and waited for his response.
“You believe this is real?”
“It is backed up by a solid body of scientific evidence,” Ophelia replied. “What you see before you is merely a summary of my father’s research, put into simpler terms.”
“Are you sure he was referring to you and not to some experimental child your mother had the fortune to miscarry?”
Ophelia spread her hands in a “what can I say?” gesture. “You were only absent from the first year of my education. You know how well I did at the Academy and at university. You were present for the meetings in which various coaches attempted to persuade me to try hurling or some other sport. You have even witnessed the checks of my identification from the first moment I stepped into a pub. Where, then, are you lacking in proof?”
He sighed, then gazed at her for quite a while before attempting to speak.
“What are you going to do?”
“Fulfil the duty for which Athair worked so hard to train me. I shall merely have to be careful, so that I will not exhibit traits that will cause me to be branded as unusual, someone to be feared.”
“What about Dr. Osborn’s research?”
“I would not entrust it to the best security team in the world. I will share the information with my brother and then I will burn it and pray that there are no other copies.”
Five
Monday
March 24, 2003
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Ophelia smiled over the ballroom. “For those to whom I have not been introduced, I am Ophelia Osborn, the new chief executive officer and chief science officer of OsCorp Industries.
“I am the late Dr Osborn’s eldest child and it was his wish that I inherit the company. Although my background is primarily in fashion, I minored in chemistry and business administration during my time at the University of the Sunshine Coast.
“It has come to my attention that there have been some rumours circulating about potential buyouts and layoffs. Let me emphasize that those rumours are only rumours—if you are sitting here before me, your position is secure.”
Some of the banqueters applauded; Ophelia tolerated this for a few moments before gesturing for silence.
“However, as with every new administration, there have been some changes.
“Those of you in middle management may have noticed the continued absence of Dr Richard Welker. After an extensive interview, vetting process and a lengthy examination of his work, I have determined that the doctor would be of better use to the company if I assigned him elsewhere. Thus, I have named Dr Richard Welker the chief administrator of the Ophelia R. Osborn Laboratory Complex, based in New Rochelle.”
Ophelia was surprised that she had to start the applause this time, but perhaps that was because Dr. Welker was virtually unknown. When Richard nodded graciously, Ophelia motioned for quiet once again.
“I have also decided that it is appropriate to name a president to lead OsCorp when I need to be away,” she continued. “Ordinarily, a chief executive officer might promote someone from the upper divisions of management, such as the vice president of marketing. Nevertheless, I felt that I should appoint someone with proven leadership skills; someone that you know and trust. Someone like Harry Osborn.”
A modicum of shock passed through the room before Harry stood to acknowledge the beginnings of applause. Under the cover of clapping, he leaned toward his sister.
“This is why you insisted I show up?”
“A sufficient reason as any.” Ophelia shrugged. “Objections?”
“Ask me again in a few weeks.” Harry waved to the crowd and returned to his seat.
“I crave your attenti
on for only a moment longer.”
The room slowly subsided into silence as Ophelia addressed the banqueters once more.
“As I continue my tenure here at OsCorp, I will establish new goals and benchmarks as befitting of a company of our stature. One of the many changes in the years to come will be how we are received in the public eye. The first change will be a bold one, something that is evocative of who we are as a company, and who we plan to be three, five and even ten years down the road.
“Therefore, I am pleased to announce that we will no longer be known as OsCorp Industries, Incorporated, effective April second. Instead, we shall be known as Osborn Scientific, Incorporated—a family-owned company.”
~*~
Nearly a year passed before Harry and Ophelia had very much interaction. Harry seemed to take a long time to learn the nuances of the presidency, until his sister grew tired of his procrastination and began piling him with work. Harry sent his executive assistant to complain that he was overburdened, but that had been all…
“Finally give up, sister?”
Ophelia looked up from her suitcase. “For Goddess’s sake, Harry, it is half ten! Have you been drinking already?”
“That’s right!” He gave her a sloppy grin. “Run back to Australia…leave it aaaaalllll to me!”
Ophelia quietly hoped her bodyguard was standing just outside the door.
“Harry, you need to go home. You are not permitted to be in my home without an invitation.”
“Why should both of us run away?”
He flopped into a nearby chair and Ophelia wondered if there was any point in sharing important information with her brother when he was in this state.
“I am not running away, Deartháir. I am going to Spain to be wed.”
Harry’s laughter was strident “You don’t even have a boyfriend!”
“You have never met my fiancé!” Ophelia reminded him. “Nevertheless, Eduardo has been living in a flat on the Upper West Side since December.”
He watched her for several minutes, as if she were an interesting television program. When Harry spoke again, he seemed to have sobered a little.
“You forgave him?”
“He invited me to attend counselling after he moved to New York,” Ophelia said as she folded a nightgown. “I think we have made sufficient progress in the last few months.”
“You’re not inviting me?”
“Someone has to remain and run the company. Though if you cannot stay out of your cups for the next week, I may have to seriously consider revoking Dr Welker’s invitation.”
~*~
“Am I an amadán for agreeing to marry him?”
“Do you still love him?”
Ophelia sighed as she shed her heels. She was leaving for Spain the day after next and work had been an all-out sprint. Unfortunately, it also meant that it was well after midnight in Dublin when she was finally able to ring her mother.
“The laws of our faith allow us to handfast for a year and a day without shame. But what good is even a year-long marriage if you don’t love him, Muirnín?”
“You were not in love with Athair.”
“I mistakenly married your athair, thinking that we would grow to love each other in time. The idea of being able to finish my graduate program without any more financial stress was also welcome. I didn’t know that I was simply Norman’s ticket into Manhattan’s upper class…or that the only reason he shared a bed with me was to sire an heir for his blossoming empire.”
Ophelia hesitated. Talk of her parents’ arranged marriage brought to mind a subject she had yet to broach with her mother.
“Were you aware of Project Rose?”
“Something to do with you, I presume?”
She tried a different tact. “Do you remember having a lot of problems conceiving me?”
“Not with the actual conception, no,” Emily replied. “I know that there were a lot of questions about whether we could conceive, however. I was tested twice and your athair two or three times.
“There were also a lot of consultations that I was not a part of. You would think that your athair was the one getting pregnant, as much time as he spent on the subject!”
Silence hung heavily on the line, until Emily asked,
“Why? What do you know?”
Ophelia sighed. “Those hours Athair claimed were spent in meetings were actually spent in the laboratory. He was altering my genetics.”
If she had been any younger, Ophelia might have pressed her mother, insisting that Emmeline tell her if she loved her any less. Instead, the young woman focused on the impact of her words and waited for her mother’s response.
“How many know?”
“That is information I am not privy to. I shared it freely with David and grudgingly with Harry…I have not yet found the right opportunity to tell Eduardo.”
“You may never find the opportunity. Now is not the time to bring up the circumstances of your conception. I wouldn’t address the issue at all, unless he begins to grow suspicious…like if you suddenly manifest telekinesis during pregnancy.”
Emily sighed. “Regardless of how you came into being, I know you aren’t Norman; I trust that you will marry Eduardo—or whichever man you choose—because he fills you with bliss. The decision, of course, is ultimately yours. Just ensure that you aren’t getting married in an attempt to save an already failing relationship.”
Six
Saturday
May 5, 2004
“You couldn’t possibly think I’d approve.”
Ophelia opened her eyes long enough to determine the owner of the voice, then squeezed them shut.
“You cannot possibly think that I would believe that you are standing beside my bed. Especially at half four on the morning of my handfasting.”
“Eduardo isn’t here,” Norman replied in a voice that was almost cheery…for him. “He had to go to the bathroom suddenly. And I think he fell asleep on the toilet.”
“I am still dreaming,” Ophelia murmured, rolling over. “You are not here.”
There was a moment of silence, in which the bride-to-be relaxed and drifted toward sleep. Until she was jolted by a resounding crash.
“I do not think I want to know what that was.”
“Your fiancé just fell off the toilet.” Norman said gleefully. “Further proof why I don’t want shit in my bloodline.”
Ophelia murmured something that sounded distinctively like “not shit”.
“You may think you love him,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “That he’ll make perfect babies…but that isn’t worth anything to anyone. If you’re that desperate to marry, put a tuxedo on Westbrooke.”
The young woman turned back to her father’s apparition. “What happened to your rule about never marrying servants or others who are baseborn?”
“Better one that I handpicked to look after you than the lowlife you call your fiancé.”
Ophelia was about to argue the point when Eduardo returned from the bathroom.
“Everything okay, corazón?”
“Fine,” Ophelia muttered into the pillow. “Strange dreams.”
~*~
You don’t listen very well, do you?
Ophelia’s scream was so loud; the hairstylist jumped and collided with the bride’s mother.
“What’s wrong?” Emily asked as she picked herself up off the ground.
“Could you give us a couple of minutes?” Ophelia asked the stylist. “And send my stepfather in on your way out?”
Ophelia refused to meet Emily’s eye until Aidán arrived and assured her that he had closed the tent against the outside world.
“I saw my father in the mirror.”
Her mother and stepfather shot each other anxious glances.
“Are you sure it’s not just stress?” Emily asked, changing to Irish.
“I am under stress…and I have not been sleeping well.”
“Nightmares?” Aidán queried.
&nb
sp; Ophelia nodded.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since Norman died,” Ophelia whispered. “And they are not really nightmares. Some are…but it is mostly Athair instructing me…reminding me of my obligations as his heir.”
Aidán and Emmeline glanced at each other again, then moved to the back of the tent to converse. By the time they finished, Ophelia was watching their reflections apprehensively.
“We still think it is wedding stress,” her stepfather announced.
“But if this persists throughout the honeymoon, we want you to seek help as soon as you return to the States,” her mother added.
Both gave her a measured look before they slipped out of the tent. The stylist returned a moment later. When Ophelia glanced back at the mirror, she found her father scowling, as if he’d secretly been present for the entire conversation.
~*~
“From the first moment I saw you, I knew I had to meet you. Your models were dazzling, but there was something in the way that you stood on the runway to receive your applause that made my heart beat a little faster.
“I know we’ve had our problems, Ophelia, but I’m glad we worked them out. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
The mention of their premarital difficulties threw Ophelia off so badly that it took her a few minutes to recover.
“Eduardo, I knew I loved you the day I met you and I often think this must be a lovely dream. I am thrilled that you want to spend the rest of your life with me, Cariño. Bearing in mind that Goddess and family come first, I pledge to make you happy for all the rest of my days.”
Ophelia had written those words before they separated and she had never gotten around to changing them. Although they momentarily stung her tongue, the words were not entirely meaningless. As long as counseling had finally cured Eduardo of the notion that she loved her bodyguard, the words would eventually come true.