The silence that followed Lyra's confession was deafening. She could feel every eye in the room boring into her, but she kept her head high, refusing to shrink under their scrutiny. For years, she had carried this burden—this shame that wasn't even hers to bear—and now that the words were out, she felt lighter somehow.
"Yes, I am Lachlan Moreau's illegitimate daughter," she repeated, her voice stronger this time. "The daughter he had with a servant. The family's dirty little secret."
A few gasps punctuated the silence. Percival's hand remained firmly clasped around hers beneath the table, his thumb brushing reassuringly against her skin.
Isabelle Sinclair's face contorted with disgust, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of newfound ammunition.
"I knew it," she hissed, leaning forward. "I always knew there was something wrong with you. No wonder you were always so... different."
She spat out the last word like it was poison on her tongue.
