I sink into the couch, my hands trembling as I clutch the edges of my seat. "What if it's worse than we think?"
Lydia's gaze hardens. "Then we deal with it. No matter what it is, we face it head-on."
The first video opens with a shaky recording of the party. Laughter echoes in the background, along with the faint hum of Christmas music. The camera pans across the room, capturing colleagues dancing and chatting.
Then, it stops on me.
My breath catches as I watch myself on the screen. I'm smiling, holding a glass of what I thought was juice.
"That's the drink," I whisper, my voice trembling.
Lydia doesn't respond, her sharp eyes glued to the screen.
The video cuts to a different angle. I'm leaning against a wall now, my smile faded, my posture slack. A man—Dickson—approaches, his hand brushing my arm as he speaks to me.
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "That's him." Lydia said.
