49: unremorseful

The soft glow of a bedside lamp cast a warm, almost romantic hue over the surprisingly comfortable cell.

Crystal wine glasses clinked softly as Lydia reached across the table, her touch sending a familiar spark through Clinton. "It's your mother's first day in court later this morning," she began, her voice a gentle inquiry. "How are you holding up?"

Clinton swirled the crimson liquid in his glass, the wine a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. A sigh escaped his lips, a weary exhale that spoke

volumes. "Honestly, I'm all over the place," he admitted. "There's anger, a burning resentment for what she's done. Devastation for the live's she fractured. And then…" he hesitated, searching for the words, "a sliver of… pity, I guess.''

Lydia offered a sad smile, her touch a silent comfort amidst the storm of his emotions. "It's a lot to process," she murmured. "You're allowed to feel everything at once."