Page 47 of Breaking Ophelia
Feral and wild, full of teeth that bite and a wit twice as sharp.
Not the perfect wife The Board wants…
But the perfect wife forme.
Chapter 11: Ophelia
ThesummonscomeswhileI’m shoving wet hair into braids, just for a change, and trying not to think about the hand-shaped bruise Caius left on my thigh. It’s not a letter this time, not even a snide knock-and-flee by one of the Board’s little rats. No, this is the real deal: a knock at the door, insistent, a heartbeat thud against the cheap wood.
I open it and find the courier… tall, angular, white-blond hair razored close to the scalp, the kind of face you’d find in a medical textbook under “Hereditary Deformity: Aristocracy.” He doesn’t bother with hello or good morning, just: “Ms. Morrow. You’re wanted in the South Gymnasium. Please come now.”
He’s not asking. His body blocks the exit, just enough to make it clear I can either walk or be carried.
I don’t say a word. I grab my jacket and follow.
The walk is slow but measured. Every corridor we cross, every flight of stairs, every polished marble stretch is empty, obviously by their design. The Board must hate an audience when it’s time for a shaming, but the ghosts are always present. I can feel them in the stutter of the lights, the whisper of air through the vents, the way even the water in the hallway fountains seems to stop moving when I pass.
I keep my chin up, shoulders squared, pace even with my handler.
The gym is at the end of a long, windowless hall, the doors double-thick, painted hospital green. The courier holds one open, and I step inside.
They’ve transformed the space from a gym to something far colder. The bleachers are pushed against the wall, stacked to the rafters, leaving the floor bare but for a row of folding tables, each covered in starched white linen. The smell is bleach, vinyl, and something sweet and metallic underneath. The only color comes from the banners nailed to the upper tier: the Board’s seal, big and blue with gold accents.
Floodlights hum from the ceiling, hot and relentless. They cut the room into slabs of white and black, no hiding anywhere. At the far end, a raised platform hosts four members of theBoard, each in a suit so black it could absorb light. The faces are different, but the vibe is the same: cold, focused, utterly bored.
Behind them, two women stand in nurse-white scrubs, hands folded at the waist, faces empty. A third—doctor, judging by the lab coat and the way she ignores the men—sits at a table covered in files and instruments.
The courier steers me to a line taped on the floor. “Wait here.”
I plant my feet and look around. There are cameras in the corners, red dots blinking, and I realize suddenly that this is not a disciplinary. This is an evaluation.
A test.
My stomach goes tight, but I force myself to breathe slow. I roll my shoulders, making a show of stretching, just to let the bastards know I’m not afraid.
The doctor glances up, eyes sharp behind the oval glasses. She stands, crosses to where I’m planted, and lets her gaze travel from the top of my head to my boots and back.
“Ophelia Morrow,” she says. “Please remove your clothing.”
I stare at her. “Excuse me?”
Her face doesn’t move. “All of it. We need baseline measurements.”
The world freezes for a half-second.
I look past her, to the Board. The men are unmoved, their eyes on their clipboards or the floor, as if the body in front of them is just another pile of meat to be weighed and discarded.
I force my voice to stay even. “Is this really necessary?”
She doesn’t answer. She just gestures to the two assistants in the background. They step forward, shoes silent on the polished wood, and I see now that they’re built for force. One is tall and wiry, the other stocky as a pit bull. I recognize them, faintly, but I can’t place from where.
They flank me. The doctor folds her arms.
“Strip,” she repeats, “or we’ll do it for you.”
This isn’t about medicine. It’s about power. About reminding me I’m prey.
I think about saying no, about refusing, but I can already see the outcome. They’ll drag me down, tear the clothes off, and it’ll be worse. This way, I keep what’s left of my pride.
