Despair

Lydia and Clinton's Residence…

Lydia's hair, usually a neat cascade of blonde, was pulled back in a messy bun, loose strands clinging to her damp forehead.

The luxurious silk robe that usually flowed around her petite frame now hung limply, offering little comfort against the chill that seemed to seep from within. She paced relentlessly, a caged tigress, worry gnawing at her like a persistent rodent.

Nearly three agonizing hours had crawled by since Clinton had rushed out, his face etched with a panic that mirrored her own churning insides.

Why hadn't he called?

Lydia had prayed until her voice grew hoarse, her pleas echoing unanswered in the sterile silence of the vast master bedroom.

The only sounds were the relentless drumming of her own heart and the mocking tick of the antique clock, each tick a cruel reminder of the time lost, the news undelivered.

With each passing minute, the urge to grab her phone and demand answers clawed at her.