The heavy crystal decanter hit the far wall with a sound like a gunshot, shattering into a thousand glittering diamonds. The amber whiskey inside bled down the expensive silk wallpaper, a dark, jagged stain that looked remarkably like a fresh wound.
"What do you mean he survived and can no longer be touched?" Ophelia demanded, her voice vibrating with a pitch of rage that made the remaining glassware on the side table hum.
Troy flinched, the sound of the glass shattering still ringing in his ears, but he remained rooted in place. He knew from bitter experience that moving while Ophelia was in this state only drew her fire. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on a point just above her left shoulder, trying to maintain a mask of professional neutrality while his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
