The silence that followed Lyra's words was deafening. Lachlan Moreau's face contorted with shock, then fury. His complexion turned an alarming shade of crimson.
"What did you just say?" he snarled, stepping closer to Lyra.
She didn't flinch. Years of abuse had taught her to hide her fear, and now, standing beside Percival, she felt no fear at all.
"You heard me," Lyra replied evenly. "And deep down, you've always known it."
Lachlan's eyes darted wildly around the ballroom, suddenly aware of the hundreds of wealthy, influential witnesses to his humiliation. His jaw clenched so tightly that a vein pulsed at his temple.
"You ungrateful little—" He cut himself off, composing his face into a mask of cold dignity. "Fine. If that's how you feel, then from this moment forward, you are no daughter of mine. You're dead to the Moreau family. Come, Eleanor."
He grabbed his wife's arm roughly, but Eleanor hesitated. She looked at Lyra with tears glistening in her eyes.
