Page 81 of Breaking Ophelia
She looks up, the gold in her eyes sparking.
“But I’m not going to break, either.”
I nod. “I wouldn’t want you if you did.”
She laughs, a real one this time.
We stay like that, just assessing each other’s motives.
I know what I want to do. I want to pull her onto my lap, pin her there, make her forget the last twenty-four hours. But I wait.
I want her to come to me.
She does.
Slow, careful, she shifts her bar stool closer until her thigh rests against mine.
She leans her head on my shoulder, breath warm through the cotton of my shirt.
For a minute, I let myself think it could last.
For a minute, I let her rest.
Then I turn, hand on her jaw, and kiss her.
She lets me.
And it’s softer than last time.
But only just.
Chapter 17: Ophelia
It’snotabellthat summons us. It’s not a siren or a call or even the Board messenger. It’s a knock—two, then three, then a long scrape that means “now.” Caius is already half-dressed, shirt perfect, hair damp from his two-minute shower. He doesn’t speak. He just grabs my hand, not rough, not gentle, and leads me out into the corridor like he’s been rehearsing this since birth.
The hallway is bright as fuck, students milling around, rushing to get to wherever they’re going.
We turn the corner and go up a flight of stairs to a section I’ve never been up, and a set of big oak doors are waiting. Massive. Older than my grandparents’ great-grandparents. Caius doesn’tknock, he just shoves them open, both at once, and the sound echoes like a gunshot in the room.
Inside, the Board is already assembled.
The room is a cathedral gone feral. The ceiling is three stories high, every inch webbed with plaster roses and twisting gold-leaf vines. The columns are so thick I could hide behind them if I thought it would matter. Every wall is lined with ancient depictions of hunters and runners: above them all is a man, with a crown that resembles the sun, staring down, as if waiting for the new generation to humiliate itself for their amusement.
At the far end, there’s a platform. Five steps up. Carved from the same stone as the rest of the place, but polished to a mirror’s gloss. The Board sits behind it, five to a side, Abelard in the center with his hands steepled and his mouth pursed in what he probably thinks is a kindly smile. Valence stands behind him.
Their robes are absurd. Black, high-collared, trimmed in gold. They look like cultists, like they’re going to light a candle and sacrifice us to the old gods. Their faces are a spectrum of pale: all the way from “sickly egg” to “blue at the edges.” No one moves except for their eyes.
Caius sighs and rolls his eyes, squeezing my hand gently.
He walks me to the center of the floor. There’s a circle inlaid in the marble, black and gold, big enough for a dozen people to stand in. He stops just at the edge, like there’s an electric fence, and turns to face The Board.
I follow, refusing to limp, refusing to wrap my arms around my body the way I want to.
There’s a furnace, low and ancient, at the front of the platform. It’s burning slow, coals radiating a dull orange, smoke creeping up in a lazy spiral toward the ceiling. The heat washes over my shins, a reminder that the spectacle is never really over.
Abelard stands, bows and then sits. It’s too smooth to be spontaneous. He probably practiced this, too.
“Welcome, Mr. Montgomery. Miss Morrow.” His voice is dry and raspy. “I trust you both slept well.”
