Ophelia paced the length of the sterile hospital corridor, the sharp, rhythmic click of her designer heels echoing against the linoleum like a ticking clock. She was seething, a cold, pressurized rage bubbling just beneath her perfectly composed exterior. Her hands were clenched so tightly into fists that her manicured nails bit into her palms, but she barely felt the sting.
She had just been informed that the murder attempt on Lyse had failed. Another plan had failed, again.
