Percival's expression froze at Lyra's words. For a moment, he simply stared at her, his gray eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"My office. Now," he commanded, stepping out of the elevator.
Lyra followed him down the hall, acutely aware of the curious glances from employees they passed. Roman trailed behind them, clutching his tablet like a shield. The tension rolled off Percival in waves as he strode ahead, not bothering to check if she was keeping up.
When they reached his office, Percival pushed open the heavy door and motioned her inside. The room was impressive—floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, and a commanding view of the city. Everything about it screamed power and control.
"Roman, cancel my next appointment," Percival ordered. "And find out how this woman got past security with multiple identities."
Roman nodded quickly and closed the door behind him.
Percival circled his desk but remained standing, looming over her. "Start explaining. Now."
Lyra took a deep breath. "As I've been trying to tell you, we're legally married. If you'd just check—"
"Not that," Percival cut her off sharply. "Explain how you're Need Iron. How you've been caring for my grandmother while working as an HVAC technician. How many jobs do you actually have?"
The unexpected question threw her off balance. "Several," she admitted. "I work where I'm needed."
Percival's phone buzzed on his desk. He glanced at it, then back at her with suspicion. "Your phone isn't ringing."
Lyra pulled her phone from her pocket. "I silenced it after that awkward moment downstairs."
Percival's jaw tightened. He picked up his phone and dialed Need Iron's number.
Lyra's phone lit up with an incoming call. She held it up for him to see.
"This proves nothing," he said, ending the call. "You could have stolen the phone."
Lyra sighed in frustration. "Ask me anything about our conversations. About your grandmother. About the rare orchids in her greenhouse that you mentioned last week."
Percival stared at her for a long moment, calculating. "Why the deception?"
"There wasn't any deception. You never asked what I looked like or how old I was. You assumed," Lyra countered. "I never lied to you."
Percival's expression remained cold. "And the marriage claim?"
"That's real too. If you'd just—"
The door burst open as Roman rushed in, interrupting her. "Sir, the Horton Group is on line one. Their entire system has crashed, and they're threatening to pull out of the deal."
Percival cursed under his breath. "I'll be right with them." He turned to Lyra. "Stay here. We're not finished."
As soon as Percival was engaged in his call, Lyra slipped out of his office. This approach clearly wasn't working. She needed another strategy.
---
Three hours later, Percival sat in the private dining room of Le Cirque, Oceanion's most exclusive restaurant. Across from him, Harvey Moran, CEO of the Horton Group, droned on about golf while their appetizers grew cold.
Percival checked his watch discreetly. After the morning's strange encounter, he'd ordered Roman to track down every piece of information on Lyra Moreau. She had vanished from his office before he could finish his call, further fueling his suspicion.
"Are you listening, Covington?" Harvey asked, frowning.
"Of course," Percival lied smoothly. "Continue."
The door to the private room opened. Percival expected to see a waiter, but instead, a woman in chef's whites entered, carrying a tray of exquisitely plated food.
Percival nearly choked on his water when he recognized her face.
"Gentlemen, I'm Chef Lyra, preparing your special today," she announced confidently. "Pan-seared scallops with a citrus reduction."
Harvey brightened immediately. "This looks magnificent!"
Lyra served the plates with professional precision, explaining the dish with expertise. When she reached Percival, she leaned in slightly as she set down his plate.
"Check the Civil Affairs Bureau records," she whispered. "That's all I'm asking."
Before Percival could respond, Roman burst into the room, looking flustered. "Sir, I apologize for the interruption, but—"
"It's fine, Roman," Percival cut him off, eyes fixed on Lyra. "How did you know I would be here?"
Lyra smiled pleasantly for Harvey's benefit. "I have many jobs, Mr. Covington. Being head chef here is just one of them."
Roman looked between them in confusion. "Sir, this woman has been following you all morning. Security reports she's worked at three different locations where you've been today."
Harvey chuckled. "Sounds like you have an admirer, Covington."
Percival's expression darkened. "Roman, find out who leaked my schedule. And have security remove Ms. Moreau."
"Enjoy your meal, gentlemen," Lyra said calmly, unruffled by his dismissal. She turned to leave, but paused at the door. "Oh, and Mr. Covington? See you at the Covington Charity Gala tonight. I'm bartending."
After she left, Harvey leaned forward with interest. "Who exactly is that woman?"
"No one important," Percival replied coldly. "Just someone who's about to lose several jobs."
---
Outside the restaurant, Lyra leaned against the wall and sighed. She pulled out her phone and posted to her story: "Some people are so stubborn they'd rather believe you're stalking them than admit they might be wrong."
She had tried the direct approach. She had presented evidence. She had been patient. Now her patience was wearing thin.
Her phone buzzed with a new message. It was from Dorian Cross, her contact at city records.
"Got Covington's private number for you. Use it wisely."
Lyra smiled. At least something was going her way today.
---
Back at the restaurant, Percival picked at his food, his appetite gone. His phone chimed with a notification from "Need Iron." Despite everything, he found himself checking it immediately.
"Having a rough day. Some people are just too stubborn to see what's right in front of them."
Percival frowned at the message. The coincidence was too strong to ignore. But how could that woman be Need Iron? The person he'd been confiding in about his grandmother? It made no sense.
"You too? My day's been filled with unexpected complications," he wrote back.
"Want to talk about it?" came the immediate reply.
Percival hesitated. Harvey was now deeply engrossed in a call of his own, giving Percival a moment of privacy. Against his better judgment, he continued the conversation.
"There's this woman who keeps showing up everywhere. Claims we're married."
"Sounds like a stalker. Or maybe she's telling the truth?"
Percival snorted. "Impossible. I'd remember getting married."
"Would you? Even if it was years ago? People forget things."
The response gave Percival pause. He had no memories from certain periods of his life—times when the pressure from his family had driven him to drink heavily. But marriage? That seemed too significant to forget.
"I don't have time for this nonsense. I have real problems to solve," he typed.
"Like your grandmother's health?"
Percival's fingers stilled over the screen. Only Need Iron would know about his concerns for his grandmother. This was either really her, or someone had hacked their conversations.
"How is she today?" he asked cautiously.
"Better. She asked about you three times. She misses you."
A pang of guilt hit Percival. He hadn't visited in nearly a week.
"I miss her too," he admitted. "Sometimes I think she's the only person who's ever truly cared about me."
"That can't be true. Someone like you must have people who care."
Percival stared at the message. There was something disarming about Need Iron's directness, even now.
"I'd like to visit her tonight," he wrote impulsively. "Will you be there?"
"I can be. What time?"
"Around 8?"
"Perfect. I'll make sure she's ready for you."
Percival found himself smiling at his phone. Despite the bizarre situation, talking to Need Iron still calmed him somehow.
"Can I ask you something personal?" he typed.
"Of course."
"Are you really the woman from this morning? Lyra Moreau?"
There was a long pause before the response came: "Yes. And I'm not lying about our marriage either."
Percival's grip tightened on his phone. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because I have nothing to gain by lying. Just check the records, Percival. That's all I'm asking."
He was about to respond when Harvey cleared his throat loudly.
"If your phone is more interesting than our meeting, perhaps we should reschedule," the older man said pointedly.
Percival put his phone away. "My apologies. Let's continue."
But his mind remained fixed on the strange woman who claimed to be his wife, and the comfortable way he could talk to her as Need Iron, despite everything.
---
Later that evening, Lyra sat in her small apartment, exhausted from her multiple jobs and frustrated by Percival's stubborn refusal to acknowledge her claims. Her phone chimed with a message from him.
"I'll be visiting Granny tonight. Can you send me the address again? I've only been there with my driver before."
Lyra hesitated, then made a bold decision. Instead of sending his grandmother's address, she typed in her own apartment address and room number.
"Here you go," she wrote, hitting send. "See you soon."
She stared at the message, heart racing. Percival Covington was coming to her apartment, thinking he was going to see his grandmother. He was about to get the shock of his life.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd finally listen to what she had to say.