Time seemed to pause.
The coffee dripped, staining the bag inch by inch, each drop landing like a ticking b0mb.
Then Lydia screamed.
“ARE YOU INSANE?” she shrieked, voice piercing the café. “THIS IS A NINE-THOUSAND-DOLLAR BAG!”
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn whispered, panic tightening her chest, “my hand— I can clean it— please—”
Grant didn’t let her finish.
He stepped forward, jaw clenched, eyes cold, and shoved her hard, not instinctively, not defensively, but deliberately, with both hands, as though swatting something unpleasant from his path.
Evelyn fell backward, her cane skidding away, her body hitting the floor with a dull, devastating thud that sucked the breath from her lungs and sent pain screaming through her hip.
Her purse spilled open, scattering mints, tissues, a cracked phone, and an old, sealed envelope that slid across the floor toward Lydia’s heels.
No one moved.
