The morning light bled through the sheer ivory curtains like diluted gold, diffusing into the master bedroom with a softness that belied the tension simmering inside it. The heavy oak door opened with the muted groan of old hinges, and Ophelia stepped in, her heels clicking across the marble floor. She paused just beyond the threshold, nostrils flaring.
Edward was seated in the armchair by the window, still in his monogrammed silk robe, a crystal tumbler clutched in one hand. The amber liquid within swirled gently as he tilted it back, drinking in slow, deliberate sips that made her skin prickle.
"Scotch?" she said, voice low but cutting. "It's barely past ten in the morning."
He didn't look at her. The rim of the glass remained at his lips a moment longer than necessary before he set it down on the side table with a decisive clink.
