Uncle Luther rushed toward Alina, pretending to be the image of a worried husband. "Where is she?" he asked, his brows furrowed in fake concern. "Dear, how is Lyla? The doctor called but didn't say much. Tell me she's alright."
Alina met his gaze without warmth. Her tone was polite, but her eyes were cold as steel. "She's still unconscious. The doctors are monitoring her."
Before Luther could say another word, a familiar voice chimed in behind him, smooth, syrupy, and utterly false. "Sweetheart, what happened to Lyla?" Luigina, or Gina as everyone fondly called her, stepped closer, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. Her perfume was thick, sweet, and suffocating. "Why didn't you call us sooner? Thank God my nurse friend informed me earlier." She gave Alina a wide-eyed look of sympathy that was so obviously fake it made Alina's stomach twist in disgust.
