The slam of the door startles me, the sound ricocheting through Lydia's office like a gunshot. My pulse quickens as Alex strides in, his shoulders rigid, his jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised it hasn't cracked. His blue eyes, stormy and intense, sweep the room before locking onto Lydia, who's mid-conversation with her assistant.
"We need to talk," he says, his voice low and sharp. There's no room for argument.
Lydia's assistant quickly gathers her things and scurries out, her heels clicking against the floor. Lydia doesn't flinch. She leans back in her chair, raising an eyebrow at Alex like he's an unruly student disrupting her lecture.
"This is about the custody documents, I assume," she says, her tone cool and measured.
Alex doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulls his phone from his pocket and slams it onto the desk, the screen lighting up with a headline that feels like a punch to the gut:
