Something wasn't right.
Lidia sat in the lavish yet suffocating confines of her bedroom, her back pressed against the cold frame of the bed. The room was grand, too grand—silver-trimmed furniture, thick velvet curtains, an ornate chandelier—but all of it felt like a prison rather than a place of comfort.
Her fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt as she clenched her fists.
No. Something was wrong.
With a sharp breath, she pushed herself up and strode toward the door.
"Hey!" she called, pounding her fist against the heavy wood. "I'd like to speak with my father! Let me out!"
Silence.
Her jaw tightened. "I know someone's standing out there," she snapped. "Open this door!"
Nothing.
Lidia gritted her teeth, rattling the handle aggressively but it didn't even budge.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
The walls suddenly felt smaller, the air staler, as if the very house itself had turned against her. She took a step back, forcing herself to take a deep breath.
