Isabelle Sinclair's face drained of all color. Her perfectly painted lips trembled as she stared at Percival Covington—the Percival Covington—holding Lyra's hand in plain view of everyone.
"I... I didn't mean..." Isabelle stammered, her earlier confidence evaporating like morning dew.
Percival's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Didn't mean what, exactly? To publicly humiliate my wife? To make assumptions about a man you've never met?"
His voice remained perfectly controlled, which somehow made it all the more terrifying. The entire room had fallen into shocked silence.
Orla recovered first, her face contorting into a forced smile. "Percival, this must be some kind of joke. You can't possibly be married to her."
"And why is that?" Percival's tone was dangerously soft.
"Because she's—" Orla stopped herself, suddenly aware of the attention on her.
