The Grey Heir

The First Breakfast

The First Breakfast

NIRA POV

I woke up at seven in the morning after only three hours of restless sleep, my mind still returning to the broken glass in William’s room and the way his body had reacted during the episode, making me wonder how exhausted his nervous system must have been after everything he had gone through.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying to clear the sleep from my head before looking down at the clothes I was wearing.

Since David had locked me out of our apartment, I had not been able to retrieve any of my belongings, which meant I had left without a single bag or even a change of clothes. The estate staff had laid out a clean outfit on the dress chair last night, a simple white blouse and tailored black trousers that fit me surprisingly well.

I picked up my black medical case, the only thing I had managed to keep, and headed down the corridor.

As William’s attending physician, checking his vitals after such a major sensory collapse was my first priority.

When I reached the grand dining room, the atmosphere was quiet and tense.

At the far end of the long table, William sat in a dark suit with his hands folded over a linen napkin. Two servants stood against the wall with their heads slightly bowed, while Ethan Cain stood near the sideboard with a silver tea service in his hands, his posture straight and neat as always.

A full breakfast had been placed in front of William, including poached eggs, toasted bread, sliced fruit and a porcelain cup with steam rising from it, but nothing had been touched.

“Good morning, Dr. Dickson,” Ethan said softly, bowing his head when I walked in. “Master William has been waiting for you.”

William looked up at me.

Dark shadows sat beneath his eyes, but his gaze was still sharp.

“Is something wrong with the food?” I asked as I placed my medical case on a side chair and stepped closer to the table.

“I am not eating it,” William said, his voice quiet but firm. “Not until you inspect it.”

I stopped beside his chair and frowned slightly.

“Inspect it?”

“Check the plate, Nira. Test the tea,” he said, gesturing toward the steam rising from his porcelain cup. “I need you to confirm that it is safe.”

A small sigh escaped my lips.

Patients recovering from severe sensory overload or neurological trauma could sometimes develop sudden bouts of intense paranoia, especially when their minds were still trying to process what had happened. Their brains could remain stuck in a survival state, making everything around them feel like a possible threat even when there was no real danger.

It was a medical reaction I had seen before, but it was still my responsibility to handle it with patience.

“William, I am a doctor,” I said, keeping my voice gentle and professional. “I am here to manage your nervous system and monitor your recovery. You are safe here in your own home, and the kitchen staff prepared this meal for you. Nobody is trying to poison your food.”

“You don't know what my mind goes through after an episode,” he replied, looking directly at me.

“I know how the human brain reacts to severe stress,” I said softly as I took another step toward him. “When your system collapses the way it did last night, your threat response can remain high even after the danger has passed, which can make you feel as though the danger is still in the room.”

His eyes remained on mine.

“But skipping meals will make things worse,” I continued. “Your blood sugar can drop, and that could trigger another headache, especially after what your body went through last night.”

William stared at the untouched plate for a long moment, his jaw tight, before finally lifting his eyes to me.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the chair beside him. “Eat with me.”

I blinked, surprised by the sudden change.

“William, I need to let you rest and then review your medical history—”

“You said it is safe,” he interrupted, his tone leaving little room for argument. “If you eat with me, I will eat.”

I looked at him for a moment before realizing that arguing with him would only keep him tense, so I nodded.

“All right. I will join you.”

A maid quickly moved forward, pulled out the heavy chair beside William and placed a clean plate and coffee cup in front of me.

I poured myself some coffee and took a small piece of fruit, making sure William could see that I was eating without hesitation.

Only after watching me eat did he finally pick up his fork and begin taking small bites of his breakfast.

I watched him carefully, paying attention to his breathing and the tension in his shoulders while he ate.

After a few moments, William spoke.

“The East Wing of the estate is completely off-limits,” he said quietly. “No one goes there. Do not wander into those halls.”

I took another sip of coffee before answering.

“Understood. I will keep my work confined to my quarters and your suite.”

William gave a small nod and continued eating.

I returned my attention to him, watching his breathing and checking the faint pulse in his neck whenever he paused between bites, and I was satisfied to see that his physical vitals were gradually returning to normal.

To me, his fear of the food was simply another symptom of the condition I needed to monitor, a possible post-trauma response that required patience and steady medical care.

Still, as I watched him sitting quietly across from me, I could not help wondering what his mind had experienced during those episodes, because whatever was happening inside William Grey was far more complicated than anything I had seen in an ordinary patient.