Page 74 of Breaking Ophelia

She’s burrowed in the nest of down and Egyptian cotton. She looks dead—one arm thrown across her forehead, the other curled tight at her ribs, like she’s protecting something precious or broken. Her hair is a snarl, damp at the temples, her face slack in the brutal honesty of sleep. The bandages hold, but barely. I’ll have to redo them after breakfast.

She’s shivering.

I crank the heat and pull the covers higher, then close the door with a soundless push.

The suite is cold and clean. All white walls, steel fixtures, glass so polished it shines. I glide through the kitchen, flicking the switch for the espresso machine before I even reach the fridge. The motor’s whine is mechanical comfort, a baseline for the morning’s rituals.

I arrange the eggs. Two, no cracks, room temp. I break them with one hand, no shells, let the whites slip into the pan before the yolks hit. Toast in the broiler—never the cheap pop-up. Knife through the butter, a perfect curl. I set the table for one, the best plate, the one with the gold lined rim.

As the eggs set, I run a finger down the length of the counter. No dust. No streaks. I rinse the finger anyway, habit.

The espresso hisses. I fill the cup to the lip, top it with frothed milk. The aroma is sharp, almost bitter, the way I know she likes it. I remember things like that. I remember every word she says, every time her jaw tics when she’s lying, every time her breath stutters because she’s afraid or because she wants to be.

I plate the eggs, slide the toast to a perfect angle, cut up some fruit and lay it on the side.

I find a silver tray, the kind my father used when the Board came to visit. Polished to blindness, heavy enough to cave a skull if I needed to.

I balance the tray on my left palm, coffee cup in my right, and carry it back through the silent suite.

She’s awake when I return. Barely, but enough to know I’m there.

Her eyes are slits, bloodshot and swollen. She blinks at me like I’m the light and the darkness all at once. Her face is mottled purple with bruises, lips split in two places. There’s a fine tremor in her hands as she pushes herself upright against the headboard. It takes three tries. The effort leaves her panting.

She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I set the tray on the nightstand.

She stares at it. “You poison it?”

A chuckle escapes me, but I swallow it back when I see she’s not joking. “You need food.”

She gives a laugh that’s more cough than sound, but she reaches for the toast. Her fingers are clumsy, but she manages to tear a corner and chew. Every bite looks like it hurts her jaw.

I cross to the bathroom, come back with a bottle of acetaminophen and a glass of water. I set both next to her coffee.

“Take two,” I say.

She’s watching me now, like she’s waiting for the punchline. She pops the pills, gulps the water, then chases it with espresso. The burn of the caffeine nearly makes her gag, but she holds it together.

We sit in silence.

I watch her eat.

She watches me watching her.

After the second slice of toast, she sets the food aside and leans back, head tilted to the ceiling.

“Is this your version of an apology?” she asks.

“No.”

“Good,” she says, voice stronger now. “I would’ve thrown it at your face if it was.”

I smile. She doesn’t.

Rolling my eyes at her, I sit at the edge of the mattress, hands on my knees, letting her study me.

She does, eyes flickering over the bruises on my jaw. She looks at my hands, the way they flex on my thighs, like I’m ready to break something.