Seraphina's Point Of View
I stared at Lydia, whose designer skirt now sprawled intimately across the sharp, expensive gravel of the Silvestro driveway. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird desperately seeking escape, yet a strange, icy calm began to settle over me, numbing the shock. The adrenaline coursing through my veins felt foreign, electric.
I hadn't expected the security guard to actually lay a hand on her. In my world, people like Lydia usually got away with everything while people like me collected the bruises, the blame, and the bitter silence that followed. The rules had always been clear: they acted, we endured.
