Lyra stared at the elderly woman gripping her wrist. Old Mrs. Covington's cloudy eyes were filled with a desperate trust that made Lyra's chest tighten. How on earth had Percival's grandmother found her way to her apartment?
"Mrs. Covington, you shouldn't be here," Lyra said gently, helping the old woman to her feet. "Your family must be worried sick."
"No, no. Don't call them." Mrs. Covington's voice quivered. "They'll just lock me up again. They think I'm crazy, you know."
Lyra unlocked her apartment door, guiding the elderly woman inside. Her mind raced. Percival would be furious if he knew his grandmother was here. He already thought Lyra was some kind of con artist.
"Would you like some tea?" she asked, settling Mrs. Covington on her small couch.
The old woman smiled, her wrinkled face brightening. "So considerate. Percival chose well."
Lyra winced at that but said nothing as she prepared the tea. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a call from an unknown number. She ignored it, focusing on her unexpected guest.
When she returned with two steaming mugs, Mrs. Covington was examining a framed photo of Lyra at her college graduation. The only milestone picture she had. No family stood beside her in it.
"You look sad here," Mrs. Covington observed. "Where's your family?"
Lyra set down the mugs. "They couldn't make it that day."
Mrs. Covington's eyes narrowed with surprising clarity. "Couldn't? Or wouldn't?"
The question hit too close to home. Lyra's phone buzzed again, saving her from answering. This time, she checked the screen.
"It's your grandson," she told Mrs. Covington.
The old woman's face hardened. "Don't answer. He'll just drag me back."
Despite her better judgment, Lyra declined the call. She had no legal obligation to Percival Covington, fake marriage certificate or not.
"Mrs. Covington, I need to understand. How did you find my address?"
The elderly woman tapped her temple with a knowing smile. "I remember things they think I've forgotten. I heard the nurses talking about a woman named Lyra Moreau causing a scene at the courthouse. Percival's wife! I knew I had to find you."
Lyra's phone buzzed again, this time with a WhatsApp message.
Percival Covington: If you have my grandmother, tell me immediately.
She stared at the message. His directness was almost offensive.
"Is that him?" Mrs. Covington asked, noticing Lyra's frown.
"Yes. He thinks I kidnapped you."
Mrs. Covington laughed, a surprisingly youthful sound. "He always thinks the worst of people. Especially women." She reached out and patted Lyra's hand. "But you're different. I can tell."
Lyra wasn't sure how to respond. She knew she should contact Percival, tell him his grandmother was safe. But something about the old woman's desperation to escape her family gave her pause.
Her phone buzzed again.
Percival Covington: Name your price.
Lyra almost dropped her phone. "He thinks I'm holding you for ransom!"
Mrs. Covington rolled her eyes. "Of course he does. Money is the only language Percival understands anymore."
While Lyra was processing this, Mrs. Covington suddenly reached out and touched Lyra's cheek. Lyra flinched instinctively—a reflex from years of unexpected slaps.
"Your face is swollen," the old woman observed, concern in her voice. "Who hit you?"
Lyra's hand flew to her cheek. The mark from her mother's slap yesterday had mostly faded, but Mrs. Covington's keen eyes had spotted it.
"It's nothing," Lyra murmured.
Mrs. Covington wasn't fooled. "Wait here."
To Lyra's surprise, the elderly woman rose steadily and walked to her kitchen. Lyra heard the refrigerator open, water running, then the microwave beeping.
Mrs. Covington returned with a soft-boiled egg wrapped in a damp cloth.
"For the swelling," she explained, pressing it gently to Lyra's cheek. "My mother taught me this. Better than any fancy cream."
The simple kindness—something Lyra had rarely experienced from anyone, let alone a stranger—broke something inside her. She felt her throat tighten.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Mrs. Covington smiled knowingly. "Family should take care of each other."
Lyra's phone buzzed yet again.
Percival Covington: $50,000 transferred to your account. Take care of her for one week. I'll handle the rest.
Lyra blinked at the message, then checked her banking app. There it was—$50,000. For watching his grandmother for a week? The amount was staggering.
Conflicted, she typed a reply.
Lyra Moreau: She came to me. I didn't take her.
His response was immediate.
Percival Covington: I don't care. Just keep her safe.
Lyra looked at Mrs. Covington, who was humming quietly while holding the egg to Lyra's cheek. There was something disarmingly sweet about the old woman, despite her connection to Percival Covington.
"Your grandson wants me to look after you for a week," Lyra said carefully.
Mrs. Covington beamed. "Wonderful! We can get to know each other properly. I've waited so long to spend time with my granddaughter-in-law."
Lyra wanted to correct her, explain there was no actual marriage, but the old woman looked so pleased that she couldn't bring herself to do it. Besides, the $50,000 would help with her company's expenses until the IPO went through.
"Alright," she agreed. "One week."
---
Meanwhile, at the Moreau mansion, Orla paced the living room dramatically. Her face bore a carefully applied layer of foundation that made her look pale and sickly.
"I just don't understand why she would attack me like that," she sobbed to her mother and Mrs. Moreau, who sat nearby. "I only wanted to congratulate her on her marriage."
Colette placed a comforting arm around her daughter. "Lyra has always been jealous of you, darling. Now that you're engaged to Jasper, her bitterness has reached new heights."
Mrs. Moreau frowned, her thin face creased with concern. "That doesn't sound like Lyra. She's always been so controlled."
"You're too kind to her, Eleanor," Colette snapped. "You never see her true nature."
Orla dabbed at non-existent tears. "It's not Mrs. Moreau's fault. Lyra is very good at hiding her true self."
Mrs. Moreau sighed, looking torn. "Perhaps I should talk to her."
"No!" Orla said quickly. "I mean, she's so angry right now. Who knows what she might do to you in your condition."
Eleanor Croft touched her throat nervously. Her illness had weakened her considerably over the years, making her an easy target for manipulation.
"I suppose you're right," she conceded.
Orla exchanged a victorious glance with her mother before continuing her performance. "Actually, there is something that might help me feel better."
"Anything, dear," Mrs. Moreau said.
"I've been trying to contact Dr. Payne—you know, the brilliant scientist everyone's talking about? I thought perhaps he could mentor me." Orla's eyes gleamed with calculation. "Father mentioned you know him personally."
Mrs. Moreau nodded. "Yes, we've worked together on several projects. He's very private, though."
"Could you possibly introduce us?" Orla pressed. "Having such a distinguished mentor would be incredible for my career."
Mrs. Moreau hesitated. "I could ask, but Dr. Payne is quite selective about his students."
"Please," Orla begged. "After what Lyra did to me, I need something positive to focus on."
Mrs. Moreau relented. "I'll message him now."
As Eleanor tapped on her phone, Orla suppressed a triumphant smile. If she could secure Dr. Payne as her mentor, it would elevate her standing immensely. Plus, stealing Lyra's prestigious connection would be the perfect revenge.
Across town, Lyra's phone chimed with a message from Mrs. Moreau. Her heart sank as she read it.
Eleanor Croft: Dr. Payne, I apologize for the sudden request, but my daughter Orla is eager to meet you. She hopes you might consider mentoring her. Could you visit us today? I'm feeling quite unwell.
Lyra stared at the message in dismay. Her Dr. Payne identity was her most closely guarded secret—a persona she'd created to protect herself from discrimination in the scientific community. And now Orla wanted to meet "him"?
The mention of Mrs. Moreau feeling unwell decided her. Despite everything, she couldn't ignore the woman who had shown her the only kindness in that household.
She glanced at Mrs. Covington, who had dozed off on the couch, then typed a reply.
Dr. Payne: I'll be there immediately.
With that message, Lyra knew she was walking straight into a trap—one she had set for herself through her own deception.