Lachlan Moreau stood before them, his normally imposing presence diminished by desperation. His designer suit couldn't mask the sweat beading on his forehead or the nervous twitch at the corner of his eye.
"Mrs. Covington," he began, his voice honey-sweet. "Please accept my sincere apologies for my daughter's behavior. She didn't recognize you."
Mrs. Covington regarded him coldly. "And that excuses how she spoke to your other daughter?"
Lachlan faltered. "Lyra isn't—I mean, the situation is complicated."
"It seemed quite simple to me," Mrs. Covington replied. "Your daughter was cruel, and you allowed it."
Lyra kept her expression neutral despite the warmth blooming in her chest at the old woman's defense. No one had ever stood up for her against the Moreau family before.
Orla approached, her designer heels clicking aggressively against the pavement. Her perfectly made-up face couldn't hide the calculation in her eyes.
"Mrs. Covington," Orla cooed, her entire demeanor transformed. "I'm terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I had no idea you were... well, you." She laughed nervously. "In fact, we were shopping for a gift for you today. Such a coincidence!"
Mrs. Covington's eyebrow arched. "Were you now?"
"Yes!" Orla's enthusiasm was painfully forced. "I've been so looking forward to meeting you. As Jasper's fiancée, I wanted to make a proper impression."
"Consider it made," Mrs. Covington said dryly.
Lyra suppressed a smile. The old woman had teeth.
"Perhaps we could start over?" Orla suggested, then turned to Lyra with poorly concealed venom. "Lyra, you never mentioned you knew Mrs. Covington. How... fortunate for you."
Before Lyra could respond, Mrs. Covington spoke. "We were just about to purchase that lovely blue dress I tried on. The one that reminded me of midnight oceans."
Orla's eyes lit up. "The Valentino? It's exquisite! I actually had my eye on it too."
"Is that so?" Mrs. Covington glanced at Lyra. "Well, let's go back and get it, shall we? I think it would look wonderful at dinner tonight."
As they turned to head back into the mall, Orla and Lachlan quickly fell into step beside them.
"We'll join you," Orla announced. "I can help you pick out accessories to complement the dress."
In the boutique, Mrs. Covington once again tried on the midnight blue dress. She emerged from the changing room looking elegant and regal.
"It's perfect," Lyra said warmly.
"Stunning," Orla agreed, her smile tight. "It's exactly what I was thinking of getting for you as a gift."
Mrs. Covington paused. "A gift?"
"Yes," Orla gushed. "To welcome you to the family—well, soon-to-be family. I'd love to purchase it for you."
Lyra watched the subtle shift in Mrs. Covington's expression and sensed trouble brewing.
"That's very generous," Mrs. Covington said. "But Lyra is helping me with my shopping today."
Orla's smile didn't waver. "I insist. After our unfortunate misunderstanding, it's the least I can do."
"The dress is $4,800," the saleswoman interjected helpfully.
Orla blanched slightly but recovered quickly. "That's no problem at all."
Mrs. Covington turned to the changing room. "Well, if you're insisting..."
While Mrs. Covington changed, Lachlan approached Lyra, his voice low and threatening.
"What game are you playing? How do you know Old Mrs. Covington?"
Lyra met his gaze evenly. "No game. I'm simply helping a friend."
"Friend?" He scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. The Covingtons don't befriend people like you."
The words stung despite years of similar barbs. "People like me?"
"Nobodies," he clarified cruelly. "Stay away from the Covingtons. They're Orla's ticket into high society, not yours."
"I'm not trying to use anyone," Lyra said quietly.
Lachlan's laugh was bitter. "Everyone uses everyone. That's how the world works. But this is Orla's territory. Back off."
Mrs. Covington emerged, now back in her casual clothes. The saleswoman carefully bagged the Valentino dress.
"That will be $4,800," she said brightly to Orla.
Orla smiled thinly, pulling out her credit card. "Of course."
After the transaction, Orla held the shopping bag out to Mrs. Covington with a triumphant smile. "Here you are. I hope you'll think of me when you wear it."
"How thoughtful," Mrs. Covington replied. "Lyra, shall we continue?"
As they walked away, Lyra heard Orla hiss to her father, "See? I've fixed it. She'll tell Jasper how gracious I was."
Outside another boutique, Lachlan caught up to them again. His expression was strained, his eyes darting between Lyra and Mrs. Covington.
"Mrs. Covington, perhaps I could offer Lyra a ride home? You two have been shopping all day, and she must be tired."
Mrs. Covington frowned. "That won't be necessary. We're staying together."
Lachlan's pleasant facade slipped slightly. "I insist. I'd like a moment with my daughter."
"Daughter?" Mrs. Covington repeated pointedly. "The same daughter your other daughter called a bastard? The one you did nothing to defend?"
Lachlan's face hardened. "Our family matters are complicated."
"They seem quite simple to me," Mrs. Covington retorted. "And quite ugly."
Lachlan pulled out his wallet. "Lyra, take this. Consider it a dowry of sorts." He held out several crisp hundred-dollar bills. "Thirty thousand. Buy yourself something nice. But stay away from the Covingtons. Your husband isn't in their league, and neither are you."
Lyra stared at the money, humiliation burning through her. Even now, he was trying to buy her off, to erase her like an inconvenient stain.
"No thank you," she said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands. "I don't need your money."
"Don't be stupid," he snapped. "Everyone needs money. Especially people like you."
Memories flashed through Lyra's mind—years of being denied what Orla was freely given, of waiting by the window for a father who never acknowledged her birthdays, of hearing him call her "that woman's child" instead of by name.
"I'm not your daughter," she said quietly. "I never was. Not in any way that matters."
Something flickered across Lachlan's face—regret? Shame? It vanished quickly.
"Take the money," he insisted. "Consider it payment to stay away from the Covingtons. They're Orla's future family, not yours."
Lyra took a step back. "Keep your money. And your warnings. I don't want anything from you."
"Foolish girl," he muttered. "Still thinking life is fair." He turned to Mrs. Covington. "Enjoy your dress. I look forward to seeing you at the engagement party."
As Lachlan walked away, Mrs. Covington placed a gentle hand on Lyra's arm. "Are you all right, dear?"
Lyra blinked back tears. "I'm fine. I'm used to it."
"No one should be used to such treatment," Mrs. Covington said firmly. "Especially from family."
They made their way to a quiet café where Lyra ordered tea for them both. Mrs. Covington watched her with concerned eyes.
"Was he always like that?" she asked.
Lyra stared into her teacup. "For as long as I can remember. To him, I was always the unwanted child. The reminder of his mistake."
"His mistake was how he treated you," Mrs. Covington said, her voice fierce with conviction. "Not your existence."
Lyra managed a small smile. "Thank you for that. And thank you for standing up for me. No one ever has before."
"Well, I'm not impressed by this Old Mrs. Covington they're so eager to please," the elderly woman huffed. "She sounds positively dreadful."
Lyra couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sure she's not as bad as they make her seem."
Mrs. Covington's phone rang, interrupting their conversation. She answered with a confused expression that quickly turned to surprise.
"Tonight? But I wasn't expecting... Yes, I understand. Jasper's fiancée?" Her eyes widened. "Coming to visit me? Tonight?"
She ended the call, her face pale with shock.
"What's wrong?" Lyra asked.
"That was my housekeeper," Mrs. Covington whispered. "She says my grandson Jasper is bringing his fiancée to see me tonight. A girl named Orla Moreau."
The realization dawned on her face like a thundercloud. "My God. I'm her. I'm the Old Mrs. Covington they were talking about. The one they bought that dress to impress."
Her expression hardened as she picked up her phone again, her fingers moving swiftly across the screen. She held it to her ear, her voice steely when someone answered.
"Percival? This is your grandmother. I've just been mistreated! You must come home tonight and stand up for me!"