Rita's Point Of View
My leather purse struck the marble floor with a heavy, hollow thud, the contents spilling out in a chaotic scatter… lipstick rolling across the polished stone, keys jangling against the hard surface, that useless taser Rose had pressed into my hands just days ago.
I stood frozen, unable to move, my legs refusing to obey even the most basic commands. My heart had ceased being an organ and transformed into a frantic, panicked bird slamming against the cage of my ribs.
Each beat sent a painful jolt through my chest, a visceral reminder that this moment was horrifyingly, undeniably real. The air in my lungs felt thick, suffocating, as if the room itself had conspired to steal my breath.
I had to be hallucinating. Surely that was the only logical explanation my fractured mind could grasp. The stress of the transatlantic flight, the disorienting jet lag, the sheer, unadulterated terror of the last forty-eight hours, something vital inside me had finally snapped.
