Lydia's Point Of View
The door to my bedroom didn't just close; it shuddered under the force of my fury, the wood groaning as I slammed it with every ounce of strength I had left. The loud bang echoed through the hallway, a definitive punctuation mark on the disaster that had been this evening.
I leaned my forehead against the cool, painted surface, my chest heaving, my lungs burning as if I'd just run a marathon through a burning building. Sweat prickled at my temples despite the air conditioning that kept the house at a perpetual seventy degrees.
Seventy-two hours.
The number felt like a physical weight, a ticking bomb strapped to my chest. Three days to decide whether I would become Mrs. Whoever-the-hell to some ancient stranger, or watch my family's empire crumble into dust.
