Page 25

My heels click like thunder and sharp, unapologetic declarations as I step out of the sleek black town car.

The night air hits my bare shoulders and slides over the open back of my velvet gown like a second set of hands.

It’s deep emerald, clinging in all the right places, daring in the others, with a neckline that whispers sinner and a slit up the thigh that damn near shouts it.

I catch my reflection in the boutique bar window.

My lipstick is wine-red, and my hair is curled into that just-fucked looseness that says effort without begging.

God, last night wrecked me. In the best possible way.

I still feel him on my skin. Silas’s mouth, his hands, the goddamn way he tied me up like a gift he planned to open slowly…

I can’t stop thinking about it. About him .

About how maybe all I needed to shake the rust off my shine was to be fucked like someone finally knew what to do with me.

Of course, I got another letter this morning because the universe loves to keep me on edge.

I found it in the estate mailbox while I was jogging the perimeter.

The gates are still locked. I’d almost convinced myself they’d stopped.

But now I’m sure Silas’s been intercepting them.

The timing is too clean. There have been no notes since he was hired.

And now this one, bold as anything, sitting right where I’d find it.

Waiting for the right moment. That’s all it said. No name. No flourish. Just that.

It should chill me to the core. It should have me sleeping with a knife again. But I don’t feel fear tonight. Instead, I feel free.

Inside the wine bar, the influencer mixer is already a kaleidoscope of curated perfection: champagne towers that glint like glass daggers, designer bags nestled beside designer lapdogs, and conversations so sharp that they draw blood if you get too close.

The air smells like ambition and floral notes too expensive to pronounce.

The lighting is dim enough to feel exclusive, but bright enough to catch every highlighter sparkle and every designer logo.

Every head turns the second I step in. I know the look—half awe, half thinly veiled resentment.

Phones rise like a tech salute. Flashbulbs burst. They hate how much they want to be me, how even their followers want a piece of my chaos.

Every woman in here has tried to imitate me at some point, and every one of them wants a selfie the moment I arrive.

I don’t mind. Let them capture the illusion.

I give them the angle they crave, the smile that’s worth ten thousand likes, then move on, my heels clicking through the velvet-soaked maze of curated perfection.

I pose with a couple of them—airbrushed women in pastel jumpsuits and too-white teeth who laugh a little too loud and cling to me like we’re best friends. I smile, toss a wink, and sip my champagne. All part of the show. All part of the mask.

It’s been forever since I showed my face at an influencer event.

I used to live for these camera flashes, curated chaos, and the unspoken competition of who could look the most effortlessly flawless.

But somewhere along the way, I lost the drive.

The sparkle dimmed, and the hunger that once pushed me to chase the spotlight just…

flickered out. I told myself I was tired, over it, and evolving , but the truth was uglier. I wasn’t moving on. I was fading.

But last night? Last night lit a match in me.

It cracked me open, raw, wild, and starving. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt awake . Satiated. Powerful. Like the version of me that I thought was long gone had clawed her way back through the moans and orgasms, reminding me of exactly who I am.

And now? Walking into this event, feeling eyes follow me again, hearing the subtle whispers, and seeing the way lenses start to turn, I know this is the beginning. Not of going back, but of reclaiming . This is step one in taking back my name, my space, my fire .

And I’m ready to burn for it.

Harper glides up to me first, all gloss and greed wrapped in a Balmain blazer. She air-kisses both my cheeks and gives me a look that peels my skin back. “You’re glowing,” she purrs. “Finally cracked the no-sex aesthetic?”

I laugh, low and smooth. “I got tired of being good.”

“You and me both,” she says with a wink before disappearing into a circle of high heels and influencer ring lights.

And then, “Lyra-fucking-Vane!”

The voice slices through the sound of artificial laughter like a champagne cork popping.

I turn just in time to see Zara Monroe practically launch herself at me.

She’s radiance in motion. Her black sequin mini dress clings to her curves like a second skin, catching the light with every exaggerated step.

The deep V neckline dares gravity, and the hem barely brushes mid-thigh.

Her combat boots are worn and scuffed, laced up over fishnet tights that scream bad decisions and late-night rooftop confessions.

Her signature leather jacket swings open as she barrels toward me with her arms wide, grinning like she owns the damn room.

“Jesus Christ, you look like you got laid, fed, and emotionally recharged,” she exclaims, pulling me into a crushing hug.

I cling to her a second longer than necessary. God, I missed this. I missed her . The chaos, the honesty, and the fact that she’ll tell me my lipstick’s smudged while helping me to plot a murder.

“I did get laid,” I whisper conspiratorially. “And fuck, Zar… it was transcendental.”

She steps back, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Was it Creed? Tell me it was the security god. Because I swear if you tell me it was some yoga instructor named Sage, I’m throwing you into that champagne tower.”

I just raise a brow and sip my drink.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, smacking my arm. “IT WAS. You kinky bitch. What did he do? Handcuffs? Leather? Rope? Don’t spare me.”

I give her a smirk that’s all heat and wicked memory. “Rope. And a mouth that should be registered as a weapon.”

“Holy shit.” Zara fans herself dramatically. “And here I was worried he’d turn out to be some dry ex-military type who only says ten words a day.”

“Oh, he talks,” I say, letting my voice drop. “Especially when he has me tied up and whimpering his name.”

Zara shrieks with laughter, spilling a little of her rosé. “Lyra. You are thriving .”

I wink, swirling the last of my champagne in the glass. “And I’m just getting started.”

She leans in again, her voice low. “Seriously, though, where the hell have you been? You vanished. We thought you’d gone full recluse or like, joined a cult.”

I shrug, my smile slipping a little. “I needed space. Time to reset. I’ve had… stuff going on.”

“Yeah? Anything I should know about?” Her tone shifts, the way it always does when she’s about to press.

I shake my head. “Not tonight. Tonight, I’m dancing and pretending the world doesn’t exist past that door.”

Zara studies me for a beat longer, then nods. “Alright. But you’re giving me the full scoop over brunch. And I want details . Like… safe word level details.”

I clink my glass against hers. “Deal.”

The spotlight feels safe.

That’s the lie I tell myself as flashbulbs spark like fireworks across the wine bar.

Laughter travels like white noise over the clink of designer glassware and the muted jazz floating from the corner speakers.

I pose between Harper and a lifestyle blogger with 2.

3 million followers and zero original thoughts.

I arch a brow, cock a hip, and perfect my smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. It never does when I’m performing.

Inside, I’m knotted and tense in the way a tiger might feel pacing behind invisible bars.

The letter from this morning hasn’t left me. Waiting for the right moment. Just five words scrawled in a careful hand, but they’ve been replaying all day like a sick little lullaby. Even as another camera snaps. Even as someone hands me another champagne flute that I won’t drink from.

I haven’t had a sip all night. It’s not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t . My instincts are screaming, too sharp and awake. That tight sensation curls in my stomach like I’m walking a tightrope high above a stage full of vultures. I smile, I pose, but my pulse is a loaded gun.

Snippets of conversation swirl just behind me.

“Is she seriously seeing that… security guy?”

“You mean the ex-military one with the murderous eyes?”

“Yeah, him . He’s hot in a terrifying way.”

Another flashbulb. Another curated laugh.

I don’t blink. I don’t let them see any reaction.

But I hear every word. Of course they know about Silas—this town feeds on gossip like it’s oxygen.

He’s the kind of person that’s hard to hide, all shadow, precision, and simmering violence.

The day I stepped out of the Vane estate with him behind me in black tactical gear was the day the whispers ignited.

And I haven’t exactly been subtle about keeping him close.

I glide through the bar like a slow-burning fuse, the hem of my gown whispering across velvet. Eyes follow me like moths chasing a flame. I know he’s watching, though not from a corner. Not from the building. From everywhere .

I stop beside a minor socialite, Ethan something. He’s tall, sweet, and forgettable in a way that would’ve worked better if I were looking for calm. His suit is tailored to perfection, his jaw just scruffy enough to seem “dangerous,” and his eyes are already deciding how close he can get.

“Lyra,” he says, his voice rich with faux-casual charm, “you look like sin in this dress.”

I offer him a faint smile, then reach out and smooth the lapel of his jacket with lingering fingers. “Sin always wears this color,” I reply saucily.

He chuckles, emboldened. “Want to grab a drink at my place after this?”