The carriage moved slowly across the frosty road, leaving behind the outskirts of the capital. Inside, silence filled the space like a heavy blanket.
Lydia sat on one side, her eyes red, her cheeks wet with tears. She had been crying from the moment they left the Andreyevna estate. Her body shook softly as she wiped her face again and again, but the tears wouldn't stop.
Ivan sat across from her, hands on his knees, fingers twitching slightly.
He kept watching her, his jaw clenched. He wanted to speak. He wanted to say something—anything—to comfort her. But the words were stuck in his throat. Every time he looked into her broken eyes, his heart twisted, but he couldn't open his mouth.
The sound of her quiet sobs filled the space.
Then suddenly, Lydia stopped wiping her tears. Her sadness turned into something else—anger.
"That evil bastard," she muttered under her breath. Her voice was sharp, trembling with rage. "I'll never go back. Not even for your funeral."
