Percival's eyes locked with Lyra's, both frozen in mutual shock. For a moment, neither moved—like two opponents sizing each other up across a battlefield.
"Well, don't just stand there in the hallway," Old Mrs. Covington called from inside the apartment. "Come in, Percival! I've been telling Lyra all about you."
Percival finally found his voice. "Grandmother, what are you doing here?" He stepped into the apartment, deliberately brushing past Lyra without acknowledging her.
The modest apartment was surprisingly cozy. His grandmother sat regally in an armchair by the window, looking more vibrant than he'd seen her in months. She wore a silk robe and had her silver hair neatly styled—a stark contrast to how she typically appeared at the nursing home.
"What am I doing here?" Old Mrs. Covington chuckled. "Living, dear boy. Actually living instead of waiting to die in that prison you call a care facility."
Percival's jaw tightened. "It's not a prison. It's the best eldercare center in Oceanion."
"Best at what? Making old people feel useless?" She waved her hand dismissively. "Lyra rescued me. Now, are those my almond cookies?"
He handed over the box, still processing the situation. His grandmother was here. With Lyra. The same woman who claimed to be his wife. The same woman he'd dismissed in front of Covington Tower just hours ago.
"How long has this been going on?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Three days," Lyra answered from behind him, her tone professional. "And before you jump to conclusions, this wasn't my idea. Your grandmother insisted."
Percival turned to face her. "And you just happened to run into my grandmother by chance?" The disbelief dripped from every word.
Lyra crossed her arms. "Yes, actually. At the nursing home. She recognized me as your wife and refused to stay there another minute without me."
"It's true," Old Mrs. Covington confirmed, munching happily on a cookie. "My Percival wouldn't marry just anyone. I knew she must be special. And I was right! Look how well she takes care of me."
Percival surveyed the apartment again. It was clean. His grandmother looked healthy. Well-fed. He'd expected to find some scheme, some angle Lyra was working—but all he saw was an old woman being properly cared for.
"We need to talk," he said to Lyra, gesturing toward what he assumed was the kitchen.
"Of course," Lyra replied calmly. "Granny, I'll be right back. Do you need anything?"
"Just my grandson's smile," the old woman replied. "He looks so serious all the time. Just like his grandfather."
In the kitchen, Percival closed the door partway, keeping his grandmother in view. "What exactly is your game here?"
Lyra's expression didn't change. "No game. Your grandmother needed help, and I provided it."
"And you expect me to believe there's no ulterior motive? No plan to use her influence to pressure me into acknowledging this so-called marriage?"
"Believe what you want," she shrugged. "But I've been texting you updates as 'Need Iron' every day. You've had full access to everything happening here."
Percival stilled. This woman was Need Iron? The person he'd been texting about his grandmother's care? The one who'd sent detailed updates about medication schedules and mood changes?
"You..." he started, then stopped, recalibrating. "Why not tell me who you were?"
"Would you have trusted updates from Lyra Moreau, the woman you dismissed as a schemer?" Her eyebrow arched slightly. "I thought not."
Percival studied her face, searching for deception. "My grandmother seems... better."
"She is. She just needs purpose, conversation, and respect. Basic human needs that expensive facilities sometimes overlook."
The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam. Percival glanced over, catching a silhouette through the partially open door.
"I should go," he said abruptly, discomfort crawling up his spine. Having his grandmother here was one thing, but whoever else was staying here made the situation inappropriate. "Text me if anything changes."
He moved toward the front door, nodding a quick goodbye to his grandmother.
"Leaving so soon?" Old Mrs. Covington pouted. "But Lyra and I were going to cook dinner for you."
"Another time," he said stiffly. "I have meetings."
As he reached for the doorknob, the bathroom door opened fully. Percival turned—and found himself staring at Lyra again, now wrapped in a towel, her hair wet.
He blinked in confusion, looking between the Lyra by the kitchen and this new Lyra emerging from the bathroom.
Then the first Lyra stepped into his line of sight. "That's Mrs. Peterson from next door. She sometimes uses our shower when her water heater acts up."
An elderly woman with gray curls peeked around the bathroom door. "Sorry for the intrusion, young man! My shower's been nothing but cold water since Tuesday."
Percival cleared his throat, embarrassment coloring his face. "Of course. No problem."
He nodded awkwardly and made a hasty exit, his mind spinning. The woman wasn't playing some elaborate trick. She genuinely seemed to be caring for his grandmother out of kindness.
Maybe he'd misjudged her.
---
The next evening, Lyra checked her phone again. Another text from "Grandson" asking about Old Mrs. Covington's medications.
*All taken on schedule. Blood pressure normal. She's in good spirits and ate well at dinner.*
She tucked the phone away, smiling at the old woman who was admiring her new dress in the mirror. They'd spent the afternoon at the upscale Oceania Mall, where Mrs. Covington had insisted on buying not just clothes for herself but for Lyra too.
"You look beautiful, Granny," Lyra said sincerely. The deep blue dress complemented the older woman's silver hair perfectly.
"Percival's grandfather bought me a dress this color for our fortieth anniversary," she reminisced. "He said it matched the ocean at midnight."
Lyra helped her change back into her casual clothes. "We should head home soon. You've had a busy day."
"Nonsense! I haven't felt this alive in years." The old woman patted Lyra's hand. "And it's all thanks to you, dear. You know, I always hoped Percival would find someone like you."
The comment stung slightly. If only the old woman knew the truth—that their marriage was a mystery neither of them had chosen, and that Percival could barely stand the sight of her.
As they made their way through the mall's luxury wing, Lyra spotted a familiar figure ahead—Orla, accompanied by Lachlan Moreau. She immediately steered Mrs. Covington toward a different path, but it was too late. Orla had seen them.
"Well, well," Orla's voice rang out. "Look who's pretending she belongs in Oceania's finest stores."
Lyra kept walking, her hand gentle but firm on Mrs. Covington's arm. "Just ignore her," she whispered.
Orla stepped directly into their path, her expensive designer outfit gleaming under the mall lights. "Showing off for your employer, Lyra? Or did you steal that outfit?"
"Please move aside," Lyra said calmly. "We're in a hurry."
Orla's eyes narrowed as she examined Mrs. Covington. "And who's this? Another charity case like yourself? The two of you look ridiculous in a place like this. These stores are for people who actually have money and class."
Lyra felt Mrs. Covington stiffen beside her.
"Young lady," the old woman's voice had dropped to a dangerous octave. "Do you always make a habit of insulting strangers in public places?"
Orla laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "I'm not insulting strangers. I'm merely pointing out facts to my illegitimate sister. She doesn't belong here, and neither does her elderly friend."
"Orla," Lyra warned, noticing how Mrs. Covington's eyes had hardened.
"What's wrong, bastard girl? Afraid I'll tell everyone the truth? That you grew up in the servants' quarters because your mother was nothing but a—"
"That's enough!" Lachlan had finally caught up to his daughter. "Orla, what are you doing?"
"Just having a chat with my dear sister," Orla replied sweetly. "And her... friend." She eyed Mrs. Covington dismissively. "Though I can't imagine what kind of friend would be seen in public with Lyra."
Mrs. Covington drew herself up to her full height, suddenly looking every bit the matriarch of a powerful family. "Young woman, I may be old, but I've forgotten more about class than you'll ever know. Your behavior is disgraceful."
Orla rolled her eyes. "Whatever, old lady. Come on, Father. We still need to pick up that gift for Old Mrs. Covington. If we're going to win over the Covington family, we need to make a good impression."
Lachlan had gone very still, his eyes fixed on Mrs. Covington's face with growing horror. "Orla," he said quietly. "Stop talking."
"Why? It's not like she knows who Old Mrs. Covington is. We need those shares, Father. Twenty percent of Covington Group could change everything for us."
Mrs. Covington's eyebrows rose. "Is that so?"
Lachlan's face had drained of color. He stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Mrs. Covington, I... I had no idea. Please accept my deepest apologies for my daughter's behavior."
Orla froze. "What are you talking about, Father?"
Lachlan's voice was barely audible. "Orla, this is Old Mrs. Covington."
The shock on Orla's face would have been comical under different circumstances. She looked between her father and the elderly woman, her mouth opening and closing without sound.
"Mrs. Covington," Lachlan tried again. "We were actually on our way to purchase a gift for you, to formally introduce ourselves. My daughter didn't realize—"
"Clearly," the old woman cut him off. "And now that I've seen her true character, I have no interest in any introduction." She turned to Lyra. "Come, dear. The air has suddenly become quite foul here."
As they walked away, Lyra could feel Orla's stunned gaze boring into their backs.
"Lyra!" Orla's desperate voice called after them. "Lyra, wait! You planned this, didn't you? You scheming little—"
Lyra kept walking, her arm supportive around Mrs. Covington's waist. Behind them, Lachlan was frantically trying to silence his daughter, knowing that every word she spoke was digging their grave deeper.
"Well," Mrs. Covington said as they reached the mall exit. "That was your sister? No wonder Percival can't stand her fiancé. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"
Lyra couldn't help but smile. "No, it certainly doesn't."
They stepped outside to find Lachlan Moreau rushing after them, his face ashen with panic.