Lyra stood rooted to the spot as Percival Covington disappeared into the mansion with Mrs. Covington in his arms. The grand doors closed behind them with an ominous thud, leaving her alone outside. She took a hesitant step toward the entrance, then stopped. The security guards eyed her warily but made no move to escort her in.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to calm her racing heart. Was Mrs. Covington going to be alright? The elderly woman's ashen face and labored breathing haunted her.
"Miss, you need to wait here," one of the guards finally said, his expression stoic.
"Of course," Lyra replied softly, stepping back.
The sound of tires on gravel made her turn. Orla and Colette had regained their composure and were walking through the gates, their heads held high as if nothing had happened. Following behind them was a sleek black car Lyra recognized immediately—Jasper Covington's Maserati.
