LYRA
My hands are sweaty, a most unpleasant and unprincess-like thing, but I had to wipe them on my clothes. With each corner or flight of stairs I grow more and more uneasy. I have to constantly convince myself to keep going. At last, I'm feeling confident enough to get into the elevator and let it shoot me up to the presidential suite. Panic threatens. I squash it down with sheer will. I will not cower. If he doesn't want to hear me out there is simply nothing that I can do but at least I would have tried. I would have fought for the minimalist and delicate relationship that we've built. No guards stand outside his door as I imagined. Then I wonder why I am surprised at all. He isn't a prince or a king in need of security in his own building. It dawns on me what a violation it is to inv
