Eleanor's face paled as she stared at Lyra, her lips parting in shock. "Your... marriage certificate?"
"Yes," Lyra whispered, reaching for her clutch. "I didn't want you to find out this way, but—"
The sudden crescendo of music interrupted them. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Percival Covington strode into the center of the ballroom. His commanding presence drew every eye in the room. Even in a sea of expensive suits, he stood out—powerful, intimidating, untouchable.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. "I'd like to say a few words for my grandmother's birthday."
Eleanor's hand gripped Lyra's arm. "Is it true? You're actually married to him?"
Lyra nodded, her eyes fixed on Percival as he approached the elderly woman seated on an ornate chair at the head of the room.
