"Honey?" Lyra repeated, her smile wavering as Percival Covington's expression hardened into something dangerous.
His dark eyes narrowed, scanning her from head to toe with clinical detachment. "I don't know you."
Those four words cut through the air between them. Lyra stood her ground despite the chill that ran down her spine. This was definitely the man from the marriage certificate—same sharp jawline, same penetrating gaze, same imposing presence that seemed to shrink the space around him.
"That's strange," she said, keeping her voice steady. "Because according to official records, I'm your wife."
Percival's face remained impassive, but something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "I suggest you leave now. I don't appreciate jokes."
"It's not a joke." Lyra reached into her bag and pulled out a folded photocopy of the marriage certificate she'd made before Colette took the original. "This is us. Married three years ago."
He barely glanced at the document. "A forgery."
"It's registered with the Civil Affairs Bureau."
Percival's jaw tightened. He looked down at the paper with thinly veiled contempt. "I'm already married."
The statement caught Lyra off guard. "What? To whom?"
"That's none of your concern." He handed back the photocopy. "Whoever put you up to this scheme wasted their time. I suggest you find better employers."
Lyra's confusion morphed into indignation. "No one put me up to anything. This is real, and I'm just as surprised as you are."
"Ms...?"
"Moreau. Lyra Moreau."
Something imperceptible shifted in his expression. "Ms. Moreau, I'm a busy man with no patience for schemes. I don't know what you hope to gain, but you won't get it. This conversation is over."
He turned to leave, but Lyra stepped in front of him. "Wait—"
"Security," Percival called, his voice carrying effortlessly across the balcony.
Two suited men appeared almost instantly.
"Escort Ms. Moreau back to the party. She seems to be unwell."
Lyra stared in disbelief as Percival Covington walked away without a second glance, disappearing through the balcony doors. The security guards flanked her, their presence a silent command to comply.
"I can find my own way, thank you," she said, marching past them with as much dignity as she could muster.
Back in the crowded ballroom, Lyra searched for Percival's tall figure but couldn't spot him. He had vanished as thoroughly as if he'd never been there.
"What did you do?" Orla's accusatory voice came from behind her.
Lyra turned to find her sister's face twisted with rage. "Nothing."
"Liar! Percival Covington just left abruptly. Jasper had to go after him." Orla's perfectly manicured nails dug into Lyra's arm. "You said something to him, didn't you? You couldn't stand seeing me happy, so you ruined everything!"
"I didn't—"
"What's going on here?" Lachlan appeared beside them, his expression thunderous.
Orla's eyes immediately welled with tears. "Daddy, Lyra bothered Mr. Covington so much he left in anger! She's trying to sabotage my betrothal!"
Lachlan's face darkened as he turned to Lyra. "Is this true?"
Before Lyra could respond, Colette appeared, placing a comforting arm around Orla. "I saw the whole thing. Lyra cornered him on the balcony and wouldn't leave him alone. Poor man couldn't escape fast enough."
Lyra stared at her supposed mother in disbelief. The woman hadn't been anywhere near the balcony.
"That's not what happened—" Lyra started.
"Enough!" Lachlan hissed, keeping his voice low to avoid a scene. "You've done enough damage. Go home. Now."
"But—"
"Now, Lyra!" His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "Or I'll have security throw you out."
Faced with three hostile faces and knowing she couldn't win, Lyra grabbed her bag and left without another word. As she walked through the grand entrance, she caught sight of Eleanor Croft watching her from across the room, concern evident in her pale face.
Outside, the night air was cool against her flushed cheeks. Lyra took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart as she unlocked her scooter—a practical mode of transport she preferred over flashier options.
Her phone rang just as she was putting on her helmet.
"Dorian," she answered, recognizing her assistant's number.
"Ms. Moreau, I found the information you requested." His voice was tight with tension. "Percival Covington is the new head of Covington Group. He took over two years ago after a hostile takeover against his own family's main branch."
Lyra's grip on the phone tightened. "Tell me everything."
"He's known for being ruthless in business. Cold. Calculating. People call him the Ice King. He's never lost a business battle, and those who cross him typically end up bankrupt. There's almost no personal information available—he's extremely private."
"Is he married?"
A pause. "No official record of any marriage."
"What about unofficial rumors?"
"There was something about a marriage three years ago, but no confirmation. Most industry insiders believe it was fabricated to avoid his grandmother's matchmaking efforts."
Lyra's mind raced. A fabricated marriage. That would explain the certificate, but not why her name was on it.
"Ms. Moreau, there's something else..." Dorian hesitated.
"What is it?"
"If Percival Covington truly believes you're attempting to blackmail or deceive him, your company's IPO is in serious danger. The Covington Group controls several key investment firms that could block the entire process."
Lyra closed her eyes briefly. Her company—her life's work—was at risk. All because of a marriage she knew nothing about.
"I need to get a divorce. Immediately."
"It might not be that simple if he denies the marriage exists in the first place," Dorian said.
"I'll find a way." Determination hardened her voice. "Keep digging. I need to know everything about Percival Covington and why my name is on his marriage certificate."
She ended the call and started her scooter, her mind already formulating a plan. She'd built her company from nothing, overcoming countless obstacles. This was just another problem to solve.
The streets were relatively empty as she navigated toward her apartment building. Turning a corner near a small park, a sudden movement caught her attention—an elderly woman staggering across the road directly in her path.
Lyra swerved sharply, braking hard. Her scooter skidded sideways, tossing her onto the pavement as it fell. Pain shot through her elbow and hip, but she quickly scrambled to her feet, looking for the old woman.
She found her sitting on the curb, looking dazed but unharmed.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" Lyra rushed over, kneeling beside her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you until the last second."
The elderly woman blinked up at her with confused eyes. She was elegantly dressed in expensive clothes that seemed at odds with her disheveled state.
"I need to call someone for you," Lyra said, pulling out her phone. "Is there family I can contact?"
The old woman stared at Lyra's face with growing intensity. Suddenly, her frail hand shot out with surprising strength, gripping Lyra's wrist.
"You!" she exclaimed, her eyes clearing with recognition. "I finally found you!"
"Ma'am, I think you're confused—"
"Granddaughter-in-law!" the woman declared triumphantly. "You are my granddaughter-in-law!"
Lyra froze. "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaking me for someone else."
The old woman shook her head vigorously. "No mistake. I remember your face. My grandson's wife—Percival's wife!"
The world seemed to tilt beneath Lyra's feet. "Percival? Percival Covington?"
"Yes! My youngest grandson." The woman's grip tightened. "They said you were gone, but I knew better. I've been looking for you!"
Lyra stared at the old woman in shock. The missing piece of the puzzle had literally stumbled into her path—Percival Covington's grandmother, the very reason he'd apparently created a fake marriage.
And somehow, this confused elderly woman believed Lyra was truly her grandson's wife.