The Hidden Empress Stripping Her Secrets After Divorce novel Chapter 391

Lyra hadn't explicitly given the order, but the implication had been crystal clear.

So, Lydia had gone through with it.

At Lawrence's birthday banquet, she had spiked Evelyn's drink.

And the result?

Evelyn was perfectly fine, while Lydia ended up in handcuffs.

She had waited in that miserable cell, desperate for her family to bail her out.

One day bled into two, then three...

All she got were her parents' disappointed glares and Lyra's cold dismissal: "Lydia doesn't know any better. Let her reflect on her mistakes in there."

How long had she actually spent behind bars?

She refused to think about it.

She only remembered being crammed into a tiny room with eight other women. In the dead of night, someone had crept up to her bunk, sliding a hand under her thin blanket. Her terrified screams had only earned her harsh reprimands from the guards and mocking laughter from the other inmates.

The way those women looked at her... it was like wolves circling a lamb.

She had fought desperately to protect herself, curling up in the corner every night, a sharpened toothbrush clutched tightly in her fist, too terrified to even blink.

Those days were a living nightmare.

A true, suffocating nightmare.

Eventually, someone bailed her out.

The only condition was her absolute cooperation.

She had agreed.

She didn't have a choice.

Lydia's grip tightened around the glass jar of Helena face cream, her knuckles turning white.

If it hadn't been for Lyra's subtle manipulations, she never would have done something so stupid.

If Lyra had just bailed her out immediately, she wouldn't have fallen into this desperate situation.

The pampered, carefree girl who dared to love and hate with abandon was dead.

She had died in that claustrophobic cell.

Died beneath the violating hands in the dark.

Died during those countless sleepless nights, staring blankly until dawn broke.

Lydia stared at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes coiled with a venomous hatred.

"Lyra Langford..." she whispered, her voice as cold as ice. "Just you wait."

Suddenly, a hand reached out from behind her.

It was pale and slender, the knuckles distinct, trailing a freezing temperature as it gently landed on her shoulder.