48: crumbling walls

Taking a deep breath, Lydia pushed the door open, the clanging sound echoing harshly in the sterile hallway.

The cell was small and bare, a single cot and a metal toilet its only furnishings.

Constance sat huddled on the cot, a stark contrast to the poised socialite Lydia once knew.

Her once-manicured nails were now dirty and chipped, her designer clothes replaced by a drab prison uniform.

She looked up, her eyes widening in surprise – a flicker of surprise quickly masked by a sneer as they met Lydia.

"Well, well, well," Constance drawled, her voice hoarse from disuse. "Look who decided to grace me with her presence."

Lydia ignored the barb, her gaze sweeping over Constance. The facade of wealth and power had crumbled, replaced by a gaunt, haggard visage that spoke of sleepless nights and shattered illusions.

A flicker of satisfaction sparked within Lydia, quickly extinguished by a wave of anger that surged through her.