As soon as Ophelia disappeared through the curtain, Isabella let out a slow, dramatic gasp—the kind a royal heroine might make upon discovering a chipped teacup. She grabbed a pillow and shoved it over her face.
"Why now?" she groaned into the fluff. "I wake up from a mysterious magical coma, nearly die, start warming up to a soft-eyed man with unfairly perfect soup skills—and the universe says, let there be blood?"
She flopped back onto the bed, the pillow barely muffling her internal crisis. Beside her, Glimora made a tiny squeaky sound and burrowed even deeper into her lap like a living hot water bottle.
"No, no. You traitor. Don't you join forces with my uterus too," Isabella muttered, gently trying to nudge the fuzzy animal away. Glimora refused, purring smugly.
Then she remembered. Cyrus.
Oh lord, she wasn't alone!
