Lyra stared at Percival, his cold expression making her blood boil. She couldn't believe his audacity, acting as if she were the one creating this bizarre situation.
"I'm not using your grandmother as an excuse for anything," she said firmly. "I saved her today. You should be thanking me instead of accusing me."
Percival's jaw tightened. "Fine. Let's go."
But before they could move toward the door, a frail voice called out from behind them.
"Percival? Where are you going, dear?"
They turned to find Old Mrs. Covington standing in the doorway, her thin frame supported by her ornate walking stick. She looked alarmed, her eyes darting between them.
"Grandmother, you should be resting," Percival said, his voice instantly softening. The transformation was remarkable – from cold businessman to concerned grandson in seconds.
The elderly woman shook her head. "I woke up and couldn't find either of you." Her gaze settled on Lyra. "You're not leaving, are you, dear?"
