Lyra stood frozen as Eleanor crumpled before her eyes, the woman's slender frame folding like paper. She lunged forward, barely catching her before she hit the marble floor.
"Mrs. Croft!" Lyra's voice echoed through the Covington mansion. "Someone help!"
Percival materialized beside her, his hands steady as he helped lower Eleanor gently to the ground. His grandmother's butler appeared with remarkable speed, already on the phone calling for the family doctor.
"What happened?" Percival asked, his voice low and controlled.
"I don't know. She just... collapsed." Lyra couldn't bring herself to mention their conversation. The weight of her confession—that she wasn't Lachlan's daughter—hung heavy in the air.
Old Mrs. Covington hobbled into the hallway, leaning heavily on her cane. "Get her to the guest room," she commanded. "The doctor is on his way."
