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I run like I’m being chased.

Not by a man, or a beast, or even a shadow. No, what hunts me is far worse. Expectation, control, and a last name so heavy that it suffocates me.

The trail carves through the forest behind Vane Estate, a curated slice of wilderness that’s more about the aesthetics than functionality.

Mist curls around the tree trunks like fingers, cool and wet against my flushed skin.

My ponytail whips behind me while my earbuds blast distorted basslines, and for a few brief and glorious minutes, I’m free.

Free to run as fast as I want and as far as I want within these walls.

Until I’m not.

I stop at our greenhouse behind the main house.

The staff stopped maintaining it years ago.

Its glass panes are fogged with age, ivy swallowing its bones.

Thick clusters of moss crawl up the walls like slow-moving tides.

Vines dangle from the rusted rafters, knotted with forgotten blooms turned to brittle husks.

The floor is a soft chaos of damp soil and fallen leaves, overrun with spindly plants that grew wild in the silence.

A cracked terra-cotta pot lies on its side, half-buried in ferns.

The air is heavy with the scent of green rot and dust, sweet and musty.

This is my place. The only ruin they haven’t tried to sanitize. I bend to stretch, the muscles in my legs burning pleasantly. And still, I don’t take my eyes off the house.

That forbidding, alabaster monstrosity with its endless windows and camera-blind corners. It watches me like it’s alive and breathing. If it were a person, it’d probably have the nastiest judging expressions. It knows I’ll never really escape. No matter how much I try.

“This is the last morning I’ll ever be alone,” I whisper as I look around the greenhouse.

I walk back, slower. My legs are reluctant to take me back, and I’d stay outside for longer if it weren’t so dang cold. The music in my ears suddenly feels intrusive, so I kill it. I pull out my wired earphones from my ears and loop them around my neck.

I step toward the entrance of the house and open the door.

The house opens to the living room glass, where my father likes to pretend we’re a normal family.

There are hardwood floors, immaculate white furniture, and enough orchids to host a goddamn wedding.

He’s already there and dressed like he’s off to a meeting, sitting in his perfect posture.

His cufflinks probably cost more than some people’s tuition.

The espresso in his hand makes him look like he’s posing for a Forbes cover.

And there it is. The envelope. The fucking envelope.

“Another one?” I ask, peeling off my sweatshirt, damp with sweat.

I can’t believe he found it before I had a chance to get rid of it.

I haven’t received one in days, and of course, I get one while my dad’s here.

I drop my smelly sweatshirt on one of the perfectly white chairs on purpose. His eye twitches, but he stays quiet.

Evander Vane is every inch the empire he built.

Unshakable, meticulously controlled, and shaped by an almost pathological need for order.

He carries himself with the kind of polished restraint that demands silence when he enters a room.

His trim beard and precisely combed silver hair are never out of place, maintained with the same discipline he applies to every aspect of his life.

His eyes, cold and calculating, miss nothing.

They scan every situation for weakness, every person for advantage.

My father doesn’t do casual. He doesn’t slouch, laugh easily, or engage in small talk.

Emotions, to him, are indulgences best left to the weak.

Warmth is not in his vocabulary. Praise is rare and always conditional.

Even affection is something he rations out, if at all, like a scarce resource.

He is not a man who loves openly, but rather one who commands, measures worth in results, and sees vulnerability as a liability.

To the world, he is a model of composure and success.

To me, he is a fortress—imposing, impenetrable, and impossible to impress.

“This one’s different,” he says, his voice all calm doom.

“They always are,” I mutter, flopping onto the seat across from him. Here comes another lecture.

He doesn’t try to argue. Instead, he slides the envelope toward me with one pointed finger. I open it like it’s junk mail. Honestly, it should be. Who even uses physical mail these days? If you want to send me threats, do that on my email or DM’s.

The photo shows me in bed with naked shoulders and my mouth slightly open, eyes closed. Intimate. Vulnerable. Shit . It’s personal in a way that makes my spine go rigid. There’s a lock of my hair taped to the corner. Well, this is definitely new.

The message below it is short and sharp: She doesn’t belong to you anymore.

My stomach flips. “Jesus. What the fuck? How long have you been taking them away for?” I ask, quieter than I want to be.

His eyes flick to mine. “Weeks.”

“Seriously?” I slap the envelope down. “And you didn’t think to give me a heads-up before the creep got close enough to play barber?”

“I needed confirmation,” he says, his voice tight.

“No, you needed fucking control. As always.”

“Language,” he growls, narrowing his eyes.

He stands and starts pacing like we’re at some Pentagon briefing. “This is not just a threat, Lyra. It’s an escalation.”

“Oh, congratulations. Took you long enough to notice.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut as if holding something back. “I’ve hired someone. He’s discreet and effective. He also has a military background. I know him from back in the day. He’ll be here by tonight.”

I laugh, short and sharp. “What, like a fucking hitman?”

“A protection specialist. Silas Creed. I don’t trust a lot of people, but he can be trusted.”

“Oh, just say you’ve hired a bodyguard for me. Like I’m some senator’s scandalous wife or, oh wait… a kidnapped heiress.”

“You’re my daughter,” he snaps. “And you are not safe. It’s my duty to keep you safe.”

I push back from the table, hard. “I’ve never been safe. Not in this house. And especially not with you micromanaging every breath I take.”

“You think I like this?” His voice rises, a rare crack in the granite. “You think I enjoy watching you self-destruct in headlines and nightclubs while men like this circle like sharks?”

“Spare me the daddy guilt.”

“Lyra, this isn’t about guilt. It’s about reality.”

“Oh, now we’re getting real? After years of treating me like a brand asset?” I cross my arms and lean back in the chair, giving him the look I save for corporate sycophants and clueless trust funders.

He grips the back of a chair, his knuckles white. “You will treat this man with respect. Or I will lock down this estate so hard, you won’t even breathe without clearance.”

I laugh. It’s mean and sharp. “You think threats still work on me? You’ve put this place in lockdown since Mom’s death. You just never had the balls to say it out loud.”

He flinches. Good.

“This isn’t about the estate,” he grits out. “It’s about your life.”

“Bullshit. It’s about control. It always is.”

“Lyra…”

“No. You don’t get to play savior now. Not after years of treating me like your precious little pawn in pearls.” I stand, inching closer and daring him to back down. “This man you’re sending? He’d better know what he’s walking into. I don’t do leashes. I bite.”

“You’ll do what’s necessary,” he says, his voice lower now, like he’s talking to a client instead of his daughter. The daughter who refuses to be tamed.

I tilt my head. “Necessary according to you .”

“This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Ugh, it never is with you.” I walk past him toward the hallway, flipping him off over my shoulder. “Let your trained killer know I’m not a fucking damsel. And I don’t need saving. Just don’t get in my fucking way!”

My hands are shaking. And my heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest. I’m so goddamn angry that I could scream because he always does this. He pulls strings and makes decisions about my life without consulting me. He treats me like a liability wrapped in diamonds.

I want to throw something. I want to smash his perfect glass table or rip the goddamn orchids out by the roots. But I don’t bother. I know nothing’s going to change, no matter what I do. He’ll act like it’s just another one of my tantrums.

He’s not protecting me. He’s taking the easy way out by containing me instead.

That’s always been the Vane way. Keep the pretty thing behind glass. Call it love and pretend it’s not a fucking cage.

At night, the sky cracks open. It’s like the sky is crying for me because I refuse to shed a tear.

Low thunder rumbles through the mist-soaked trees, like the earth itself is growling.

I’m in my bedroom upstairs, barefoot and pacing, still wearing the leggings and tank top from my run.

My hair’s a mess, and I don’t care. I didn’t have the energy to shower or do anything all day.

I spent the whole day texting Zara and scrolling on my phone.

Fuck my dad and his high-society expectations.

A flash of headlights slices through the fog. I’m intrigued.

There it is. The black SUV, crawling down our mile-long driveway like a predator that knows exactly where its prey sleeps. No honk or engine roar. Just the whisper of rubber on wet gravel.

I move toward the window and press my fingers to the cool glass. The storm makes it harder to see, with wind pulling at the trees and the rain starting to spit, but I can just about make out enough.

The SUV stops, and the door opens.

A man steps out.

Even from here, I can tell that he’s tall and built like a fortress with broad shoulders under a fitted black coat. It’s not flashy. No designer logos or over-polished shoes. Just simple, efficient, and deadly looking.