Lydia's Point Of View
"I won't forget this," I said quietly. "I won't forgive it either."
My jaw tightened one last time.
Then I stepped out, closed the door behind me, and decided to go home.
I walked into the underground garage with my bag hanging from my shoulder and my head still throbbing in a steady, punishing rhythm. The air down there smelled of oil and concrete. Fluorescent lights hummed above, washing everything in a pale glow that made the bruise on my cheek feel louder than it already was.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," the security guard said the moment he spotted me.
His voice carried that forced cheerfulness they all used. Polite. Careful. Obedient.
I stopped and looked at him.
Not a quick glance. I looked at him.
His smile faltered almost instantly. His eyes flicked to my face, to the faint swelling, to the stiffness in my posture. Then they dropped.
I did not respond.
He shifted his weight. "Ma'am?"
The word irritated me.
