"𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭" | 𝐋𝐢𝐯 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 & 𝐑𝐡𝐞𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐲
Chapter 11: Insults Before Breakfast
After falling back asleep in the arms of that enormous, absurdly comfortable gorilla otherwise known as Rhea Ripley, my memory dissolves into complete darkness.
No fragments of conversation.
No sensation of being moved from the airport into the car, from the car into the hotel, from the hotel into whatever floor we ended up on.
Absolutely nothing survived.
Sleep swallowed me whole.
Not ordinary sleep, either.
Not the restless kind I have grown painfully accustomed to over the past months, where my body technically rests while my mind continues pacing endless circles somewhere deep beneath consciousness like a trapped animal refusing to settle.
This felt heavy in the most beautiful possible way.
Like sinking beneath warm water after spending too long bracing against storms.
Like my nervous system had finally surrendered after months of clenching itself into knots sharp enough to cut from the inside.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I did not wake up every thirty minutes gasping from invisible catastrophes my mind invented during the night.
There were no intrusive thoughts dragging me awake by the throat.
No sensation of doom hovering somewhere just beyond the edge of consciousness waiting patiently for me to open my eyes.
Deep, uninterrupted silence.
The kind capable of making a person forget they have been suffering for a while.
And when consciousness finally begins returning to me, it happens slowly.
At first there is only warmth.
The faint lingering heaviness of sleep still wrapped around my limbs like velvet restraints refusing to let go.
Soft golden sunlight spills across my face in long delicate streaks, filtering through closed eyelids until I finally force them open with quiet reluctance.
Immediately, morning floods my vision.
The first thing I notice is brightness.
Not the sterile, aggressive kind hotels sometimes drown themselves in.
Everything inside it seems washed in the pale honey-colored light of sunrise, where shadows remain soft around the edges and every surface carries the sleepy shimmer of early morning stillness.
For several seconds I simply lie there staring upward, disoriented in that strange way people become after sleeping too deeply in unfamiliar places.
The ceiling above me is elegant, framed with intricate crown molding surrounding a recessed tray detail that gives the room an almost cinematic sense of depth. Hanging from its center is a brass pendant fixture with two frosted globe lights, delicate yet expensive-looking, the kind of detail designed not merely for function but atmosphere.
Slowly, my gaze drifts lower.
The bedroom itself is enormous.
Not merely large, but intentionally luxurious in the quiet, restrained way wealthy hotels often are. Nothing here screams for attention, yet every detail feels painfully curated.
The king-sized bed beneath me is impossibly soft, layered in pristine white linens still cool against my skin despite the warmth of the room. The pillows are oversized and cloudlike, arranged with almost irritating perfection, while two turquoise accent cushions rest near the headboard like carefully placed jewelry against silk.
The headboard itself curves elegantly upward in a warm champagne-beige upholstery, tall enough to command the room without overwhelming it.
A trace of expensive hotel soap lingering faintly somewhere in the air.
And beneath all of it, sunlight warming fabric.
The kind of scent that only exists during very early mornings in beautiful places.
I push myself up slightly against the pillows, blinking away the last remnants of sleep while my eyes continue wandering around the suite.
At the foot of the bed sits a long upholstered bench wrapped in ribbed brown fabric, its light wooden legs catching ribbons of sunlight spilling across the patterned carpet below. The carpet itself is dark charcoal with subtle woven detailing running through it, intricate enough to feel elegant without becoming distracting.
Nothing clashes in this room.
Every texture seems chosen to complement another.
Every color exists in deliberate harmony.
Behind the bed, the wall rises into a massive decorative panel stretching nearly floor-to-ceiling. Dark bronze latticework forms elaborate geometric patterns across its surface, intricate and architectural, almost hypnotic to look at for too long.
It reminds me strangely of armor.
The kind designed as much for intimidation as decoration.
To the left, a towering mirror reflects part of the sitting area, making the room appear even larger than it already is. Two curved velvet armchairs in muted mint-green sit facing one another near the windows, separated by a small dark coffee table.
A fruit arrangement rests there untouched.
Probably placed by hotel staff sometime during the night.
The entire sitting area looks untouched, almost staged, like something from an interior design magazine rather than an actual hotel suite occupied by exhausted wrestlers traveling city to city every week.
Between the chairs stands a tall floor lamp casting warm ambient light despite the daylight already pouring into the room.
Then there are the windows.
Tall and dramatic, framed by ornate white latticework arches that soften the morning light pouring through them. Beyond the glass, the outside world glows pale blue beneath the fading dawn while long olive-gold velvet curtains hang heavily at either side like theater drapes waiting to be drawn.
And for a strange moment, lying there in the middle of this beautiful unfamiliar room with sunlight warming the sheets and sleep still lingering heavily in my body, I experience something dangerously unfamiliar.
Not pretending to be okay loudly enough that nobody notices the fractures underneath.
The kind that arrives so gently you almost do not trust it at first.
I close my eyes again briefly, breathing slowly while sunlight brushes against my skin.
And somewhere deep inside me, a thought surfaces quietly before I can stop it.
I cannot remember the last time I slept without fear following me into my dreams.
I slowly push myself up onto my elbows, still tangled in sleep, a quiet yawn escaping me before I can stop it.
My body feels unusually heavy in the best possible way.
For a few disoriented seconds, I simply sit there beneath the white sheets, sunlight pouring across the bed while my brain struggles to reconnect itself to reality.
I genuinely cannot remember how I ended up here.
The last thing I remember clearly is the plane.
The movie playing somewhere in the background.
The warmth beneath my cheek.
A complete blank space where memory should have been.
I drag one hand through my messy curls, squinting against the morning light spilling through the enormous windows.
Immediately, my attention snaps toward it.
Rhea walks inside like she owns the entire damn hotel.
Which, honestly, with her level of confidence, she probably believes she does.
She is dressed almost offensively casually.
An oversized black hoodie hangs loosely over her broad frame, sleeves pushed slightly upward to expose tattooed forearms. The matching black baggy sweatpants sit low on her hips while spotless white Nike sneakers contrast sharply against the dark carpet beneath her feet.
Everything about her appearance screams effortless intimidation.
Like she woke up and accidentally looked dangerous.
In one hand, she loosely holds her room key and phone.
The other lifts an IQOS toward her mouth.
She inhales slowly, and almost immediately the cool menthol scent spreads through the suite, sharp and clean against the warm vanilla atmosphere lingering from earlier.
My expression twists into immediate irritation as full consciousness finally crashes back into me.
"What the hell am I doing here?" I demand.
Rhea barely glances at me while stepping further into the room.
"Good morning to you too," she says dryly.
That deep voice of hers is still rough from sleep, low enough to vibrate slightly beneath the words.
"No, seriously," I say, throwing the blanket aside dramatically. "Why am I in your room?"
She removes the IQOS from her mouth, exhaling slowly before answering with complete emotional detachment.
"My sincerest apologies for not abandoning you unconscious outside in the middle of a cold windy Toronto night," she replies. "Next time I'll absolutely leave you on the pavement for character development."
I stare at her in disbelief.
"Oh my God, you are insufferable."
"And yet," she says calmly, tossing her keycard onto the nearby table, "you keep following me around like a stray cat with psychological problems."
I sit up straighter immediately.
"Why didn't you just take me to my own room?"
"I did take you to your room."
Then narrow my eyes suspiciously.
"Because," she says slowly, like she's explaining basic mathematics to an especially difficult child, "you refused to wake up. Repeatedly."
Then immediately continue arguing anyway.
"You still could've just given me my keycard."
At that, Rhea finally looks directly at me.
Cold gray-green eyes meet mine with visible exhaustion.
"You know," she says, "another thing that deeply irritates me about you is your astonishing lack of gratitude."
Her accent thickens slightly when annoyed.
I notice that immediately.
"I did get your keycard," she continues. "And for the record, carrying you through half the hotel at two in the morning wasn't exactly my dream evening either."
Then she adds with devastating casualness:
"You're heavier than you look."
I gasp like a Victorian woman witnessing public scandal.
Without hesitation, I grab the nearest pillow and launch it directly at her head.
"Mention my weight one more time and I'll throw you off this balcony myself."
The pillow smacks into her chest.
She does not even flinch.
Honestly, arguing with Rhea sometimes feels like trying to emotionally damage a mountain.
She simply catches the pillow calmly with one hand before letting it fall onto the couch nearby.
"You absolutely could throw me off the balcony," she agrees with infuriating composure. "But then you'd probably cry during the police interrogation."
I point at her aggressively.
"I unfortunately know you very well."
That lands somewhere deeper than it should.
Immediately irritated by the feeling, I grab the second pillow.
Meanwhile, Rhea casually walks further into the suite kitchen area like we are not actively threatening each other before breakfast.
"And another thing," she says over her shoulder. "I'm never sitting beside you on a plane again."
Her tone remains maddeningly calm.
"You cannot sit still for more than fourteen seconds. You kick, shift around, sigh dramatically, steal armrests, complain about invisible problems, then somehow fall asleep on people like a tranquilized koala."
The second pillow flies across the room at dangerous speed.
This time she actually ducks slightly as it sails past her shoulder.
"Good," I snap. "Nobody wants to sit beside you either because you're basically an oversized emotionally constipated gorilla."
Rhea slowly turns her head toward me.
"Emotionally constipated."
She stares at me another second longer before muttering:
"Christ, you really do say whatever enters your brain first."
"That was not a compliment."
I cross my arms triumphantly beneath the blankets.
Meanwhile, Rhea walks toward the hotel coffee machine with the exhausted energy of someone trying very hard not to commit crimes before sunrise.
The sunlight catches against the sharp lines of her profile as she moves, illuminating strands of dark hair falling messily near her face.
She still looks attractive.
Even while being unbearable.
Even while standing there dressed like a sleep-deprived mafia bodyguard holding a menthol vape at eight in the morning.
Which honestly feels deeply unfair.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The suite fills instead with soft morning light, the distant hum of the city outside the windows, and the quiet sound of coffee brewing somewhere near the kitchen counter.
Despite the insults flying back and forth with automatic precision—
There is something dangerously domestic about this scene.
Like muscle memory neither of us successfully erased.
Rhea turns fully away from me after that, walking toward the built-in coffee machine near the marble counter with the slow, unbothered confidence of someone who knows exactly how irritating they are and enjoys it immensely.
Morning light follows her across the suite.
The oversized black hoodie hangs loosely over her broad shoulders while the fabric of the sweatpants shifts lazily with every movement. Her dark hair is slightly messy from sleep, falling near the back of her neck in soft disarray that somehow only makes her look more intimidating instead of less.
Some people wake up looking human.
Rhea wakes up looking like she walked out of an underground fight club and onto the cover of a luxury magazine simultaneously.
The coffee machine hums softly as she presses a few buttons with tattooed fingers, completely at ease inside the silence settling between us again.
Meanwhile I remain sprawled dramatically across the massive hotel bed, wrapped in expensive white sheets like a deeply offended princess recovering from betrayal.
Honestly, jury's still out on that one.
I watch her for another second before speaking.
"So," I ask lazily, voice still rough from sleep, "how long are we stuck here in Toronto?"
Rhea barely glances over her shoulder.
Emotionally unavailable as always.
Then she opens one of the cabinets, grabs a mug, and adds:
"We're both booked for SmackDown this Friday."
Then, with complete indifference:
Immediately, a grin pulls at the corner of my mouth.
"Oh," I say sweetly. "So you already know you're losing."
Rhea snorts softly under her breath.
Just that low amused exhale she does when she thinks somebody is being ridiculous.
"Interesting," she murmurs while pouring coffee into the mug. "Morgan suddenly sees the future now."
I shift comfortably against the pillows, fully committing to the bit.
"I can see your entire tragic future, actually. You lose every match against me, your ego collapses, and eventually you're forced to become a motivational speaker in small community colleges."
That finally earns a reaction.
The corner of her mouth twitches briefly while she lifts the coffee cup.
"How devastating," she says flatly. "I'm already crying internally. Anything else you'd like to manifest while you're at it?"
I narrow my eyes dramatically toward her silhouette standing in front of the sunlight pouring through the windows.
"Your ass is blocking my sunlight and it's becoming a serious issue."
Rhea slowly takes a sip of coffee.
"My sincerest apologies for being blessed with extraordinary proportions."
"They're not extraordinary."
"They're not even attractive."
That makes her finally turn slightly toward me.
Just enough for me to catch the sharp profile of her face lit by the golden morning light.
That slow, knowing, deeply irritating smirk.
"Really?" she asks quietly.
Her voice drops lower somehow, roughened by coffee and sleep and arrogance.
"Then maybe stop staring at my ass every five seconds."
Heat immediately flashes across my face.
Because she said it out loud.
"That is not what I'm doing."
"I was looking at the window."
"You were looking directly at me."
"You were standing in front of the window."
"Convenient explanation."
I grab another pillow instinctively.
"Oh no," she says dryly. "Not the decorative pillows. How will the hotel ever financially recover."
This time she catches it effortlessly without even spilling her coffee.
Which somehow annoys me more.
"You're unbearable," I mutter.
"And yet," she says while placing the pillow neatly back onto the couch beside her, "you continue seeking my attention every fifteen seconds."
"I seek violence, not attention."
I narrow my eyes at her again while she casually leans one hip against the counter, coffee cup still in hand.
There is something infuriatingly domestic about this entire moment.
The coffee brewing smell filling the suite.
Her standing there half-awake in oversized clothes while we insult each other before breakfast like some divorced couple forced into temporary coexistence by the universe itself.
Like slipping unconsciously into an old rhythm both of us still remember despite everything we destroyed.
That realization unsettles me more than I want to admit.
Because somewhere beneath the sarcasm and arguing and constant verbal warfare, there remains an intimacy between us that neither time nor hatred managed to fully kill.
We still know exactly how to provoke each other.
Exactly where the rhythm of conversation bends next before the other person even speaks.
Like an old song neither of us forgot despite trying to bury it beneath anger.
Rhea takes another slow sip of coffee while watching me over the rim of the cup.
Then her eyes narrow slightly.
"Oh my God," I groan dramatically, throwing myself backward onto the bed. "You are literally the most self-obsessed woman I've ever met."
"And you're terrible at being subtle."
"That's probably the most honest thing you've said all morning."
The sunlight continues spilling through the massive windows around us, warm and golden and impossibly soft.
Despite the constant friction between us—
There is laughter sitting quietly underneath all of it now.
Rhea takes another slow sip of coffee, completely unbothered by my continued existence.
The sunlight spilling through the massive hotel windows catches faintly against the sharp angles of her face while she stands there leaning against the marble counter like some infuriatingly attractive supervillain who survives entirely on caffeine, intimidation, and unresolved psychological issues.
Then, casually, without even looking at me, she places the coffee cup down onto the small table beside her.
"So where's your beloved chicken tender slut this morning?"
"Oh my God," I mutter, rolling my eyes hard enough to damage my vision permanently. "Can you stop calling him that?"
Rhea's expression remains perfectly calm.
"He is a chicken tender slut."
The confidence with which she says it is honestly insulting.
"And he's pathetic," she continues smoothly, lifting the cup again. "So I guess we're all making observations today."
That cold, razor-thin layer of cruelty she slips into whenever Dominik becomes part of the conversation.
Not even visible jealousy.
Like she's trying to sound indifferent while secretly aiming for emotional damage.
"The only thing saving him," she adds before taking another sip, "is the fact you're still standing next to him."
Then point at her dramatically from across the suite.
"Hold on. Are you insulting him and me at the same time?"
Rhea does not answer immediately.
Instead, she simply raises one eyebrow over the rim of her coffee cup while taking another slow sip.
Which somehow feels even more offensive.
"That is exactly what you're doing."
Cold, deliberate silence.
I climb fully out of bed now, the soft hotel carpet cool beneath my feet as I move toward her.
"Let me remind you of something," I say, voice sharpening slightly. "You dated him before I did."
"And you treated him terribly."
That finally earns a reaction.
Her eyes flick toward mine briefly.
"You didn't love him," I continue. "You barely appreciated him at all. He followed you around like a lost puppy while you treated him like emotional furniture."
Rhea exhales slowly through her nose.
"Well," she says dryly, "how wonderful that you rescued him from such unbearable tragedy."
"You're still together, aren't you?" she continues calmly. "So clearly true love prevailed."
There is something deeply sarcastic in the way she says love.
Like the word itself leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
Suddenly I understand exactly what she's doing.
A slow grin spreads across my face.
I step closer toward her until we're standing only a short distance apart in the middle of the golden morning light flooding the suite.
Rhea's eyes narrow immediately.
The reaction is instantaneous.
Pure visible disgust flashes across her face like I just accused her of eating drywall recreationally.
"Why the hell," she says slowly, "would I be jealous of you dating that boy?"
She actually looks offended by the suggestion.
"That sentence doesn't even sound realistic. It's like snow in August."
Classic Rhea behavior whenever something gets too close to the truth.
"You're jealous," I repeat confidently.
Before she can stop me, I take the coffee cup directly from her hand.
Her eyebrows immediately lift.
I hold eye contact deliberately while taking a sip.
And immediately regret every decision I've ever made.
Not objectively awful, probably.
The kind of coffee that tastes less like a beverage and more like unresolved trauma dissolved into boiling water.
"Oh my God," I choke out dramatically. "You still drink this liquid punishment?"
"No, it's chemical warfare."
I stare into the cup with genuine betrayal.
"It's called having functioning adult taste buds."
"It tastes like burnt depression."
"It tastes like somebody filtered sorrow through tree bark."
That finally makes her laugh.
I hate how much I still love hearing it.
The sound disappears almost immediately, but the atmosphere shifts afterward anyway, something softer quietly threading itself beneath the insults.
I hand the cup back to her with visible disgust.
"I hope you choke on it."
"You say that," she murmurs, taking another sip, "but somehow you still stole my coffee instead of getting your own."
Then narrow my eyes suspiciously.
"That means absolutely nothing."
"You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."
The nickname lands between us like a lit match.
Neither of us moves immediately afterward.
Sunlight spills across the floor.
The city hums faintly beyond the windows somewhere far below.
And for one dangerously quiet moment, we are standing far too close to each other inside a beautiful hotel suite at sunrise, arguing over coffee like none of the destruction between us ever happened.
Which might honestly be the most dangerous thing either of us has done yet.
