Lydia stood in Ivan's study. Her voice suddenly disappeared. Her throat was dry. She couldn't speak. Her legs trembled under her, and she barely managed to stay on her feet.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, as if her body was trying to hold onto something—anything—that would stop it from breaking apart. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. She had imagined this moment many times, feared it more than death. But now that it was here, it didn't feel like fear. It felt like drowning.
Her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her ears. Her skin felt cold, almost numb, and yet her back was damp with sweat. The silence stretched between them like a wall made of glass—thin, fragile, ready to shatter.
"Ivan..." she said, almost in a whisper. "I'm sorry... I—"
Ivan's voice was cold. "You're sorry? Sorry for what? This is your handwriting, is it not?"
