Lachlan's face contorted with rage, his complexion turning an alarming shade of crimson. Several guests nearby turned to stare at the unfolding scene.
"How dare you?" he hissed, stepping closer to Lyra. "After everything we've done for you—"
"Done for me?" Lyra maintained her composure, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "What exactly have you done except treat me like an unwelcome guest in your home?"
Lachlan raised his finger, pointing it directly at her face. "You ungrateful little—"
"That's enough, Lachlan."
The soft yet commanding voice cut through the tension like a knife. Eleanor Croft approached them with measured steps, her elegant midnight blue dress flowing gracefully around her frail figure. Despite her physical weakness, her presence commanded immediate respect.
"This is neither the time nor place for such discussions," Eleanor said, placing a gentle hand on her husband's arm. "We are guests at Mrs. Covington's birthday celebration."
