The woman refused to give her name.She stood at the security gate of the Whitmore Foundation at exactly 7:45 a.m., dressed in a plain navy dress, her hair streaked with silver and pulled back tightly. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t disruptive.She simply insisted.“I will wait,” she told the receptionist calmly. “She needs to hear this from me.”By the time Lydia arrived, security had already notified her.“There’s a woman downstairs asking specifically for you,” Ethan said, scanning his phone. “No appointment.”“Did she say what it’s about?”“No. Just that it’s personal.”Personal.Lydia hesitated, then nodded. “Bring her up.”Minutes later, the woman entered her office without intimidation or awe. Her eyes were steady. Observant.“You’re Lydia,” she said.“Yes.”The woman studied her for a moment, as if comparing her to someone else.“You look like him,” she said finally.Lydia’s chest tightened slightly.“My father?”“Yes.”There was no warmth in the answer. But no bitterness either.
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