Lydia's Point Of View
The call with Lucinda ended with a click that sounded like the cocking of a pistol. I stood in the middle of my office, my chest rising and falling with a rhythm that felt less like panic and more like… hope? It was a dangerous thing to harbor in this house, like carrying a lit candle through a room full of gunpowder.
"It's going to work," I whispered to the empty air. The lavender scent of the room finally felt less like a funeral home and more like a spa… a small victory in itself. "It has to. No negativity, Lydia. You are a Moore. You don't get sold; you make the sales." The words tasted bitter on my tongue, a mantra I'd repeated since childhood, though I'd never quite believed it until now.
