Lydia's Point Of View
My father's hand remained on my chin, his grip firm enough to hold my face steady while his eyes examined every mark again. The room stayed quiet except for the faint ticking of the wall clock and the distant clatter of dishes somewhere deeper in the house.
"Who did this to you?" he asked.
I did not answer immediately.
Not because I feared the answer. Fear had nothing to do with it. I knew exactly what I was doing. I let silence stretch, watching the small changes in his expression. His patience shortened with every passing second. His brows lowered slightly. His fingers tightened.
"Lydia," he said, slower this time.
I lowered my eyes for a moment, drawing a breath as though the words required effort. The pause was deliberate. He noticed. He always noticed.
"Seraphina," I said quietly.
His hand dropped from my face.
The name settled between us like a stone.
He leaned back an inch, eyes narrowing as he studied me, making sure he heard correctly.
