Page 29

The past three days have been a fucking circus.

My phone hasn’t stopped vibrating. Articles, screenshots, and half-assed apologies from brands who “value their partnership” but are “closely monitoring social sentiment.” One skincare company paused our deal pending a PR review while another wants me to fly to LA next week to “reaffirm the vision,” whatever the hell that means.

My agent has been on speaker nonstop, and my DMs are a battlefield.

Some people are defending me, but most of them are tossing me to the wolves.

And still… I’m back.

In the spotlight, trending, being whispered about.

And God help me, I forgot how much I fucking missed it. It’s messed up, I know.

Not just the fame, but the performance. The adrenaline of walking into a room and owning it. The silk, the lashes, the champagne that tastes like ambrosia and poison at once. I was born for this—rich, wild, and dangerous. A perfect storm wrapped in Valentino and venom.

I haven’t seen Silas. Not once.

Which, logically, is smart. Because if I did, I’d probably pin him to the nearest marble column and beg him to fuck me again.

And I don’t beg. Not out loud. But fuck, I miss him.

It’s like a dull throb under my skin. Every shadow, every flashbulb, and every low masculine voice that isn’t his feels disappointing.

But I’ve had too much on my plate. Between salvaging my reputation, chasing brands that are on the fence, and re- establishing my social capital, I barely had time to think. Still, he lingers, like scent on tender skin. Like teeth marks on memory.

But tonight is not about Silas.

Tonight is a charity gala hosted by one of the newer influencer elites, Fiona Moore, the sun-kissed YouTube lifestyle oracle with a five-year plan and a diamond watch.

It’s all sponsored by Coastal National Bank, which means money is flowing like wine, and people are pretending to care about clean oceans while wearing $10,000 gowns.

It’s the kind of party where alliances are formed through glances, and careers die without a second thought.

And tonight, I’m not here to survive. I’m here to dominate.

I arrive late, just as the sun begins to melt into the horizon, bleeding gold across the ocean.

The coastal estate shimmers like a fantasy, with columns wrapped in jasmine, candlelight dancing on mirrored glass, and crystal chandeliers swaying in the breeze of hidden fans.

It’s opulence dressed as charity, secrets dressed as gowns.

I step out of the car, and the world stops.

I’m wearing a pale pink mini dress that’s as tight as a second skin.

It barely covers my ass, and it dips just low enough to threaten a wardrobe malfunction.

My hair’s twisted into a high updo, with soft curls spilling out as though I didn’t spend two hours perfecting it.

My tits look fucking incredible. All held together with strategic tape and a prayer.

And my smile is weaponized.

The article pissed me off, so I came dressed for revenge. And the spotlight. Let them see what happens when they try to write me off.

Cameras turn, and photographers freeze like prey spotting a predator. Then… a flash. Flash. Flash. Their lenses devour me like I’m something decadent and forbidden.

“Miss Vane!”

“Lyra, over here!”

A murmur rolls through the crowd like a wave breaking on glass.

I feel it, the judgment, curiosity, and hunger.

I strike a pose, my legs just so, my chin held high, my eyes smoldering.

I smile like I own the night. Like nothing inside me is cracked or hollow.

Like I didn’t spend yesterday deleting contacts I once trusted like my own.

And then…I see her. Fucking Harper.

She’s clinging to a venture-capital heir like her life depends on it. She’s dressed in silver, a calculated contrast to my blush pink, like she thought she’d be the star tonight. Her smile falters the moment she sees me. Her posture stiffens, her hand tightening around her date’s arm.

She looks at me and then looks away just as quickly. That bitch blocked me.

For a beat, my heart hammers, all those whispers, the betrayal, and the isolation rushing at me. For a split second, I tremble, feeling the urge to duck, to shrink. But I breathe, taking in a deep breath.

I straighten and flash her my brightest, most vicious smile, along with a wink tossed like a dagger.

Harper goes pale. Gasps flutter, and whispers spiral.

People turn and watch Harper squirm. I hear one influencer mutter, “She’s got guts showing up like that.” Another snaps a story, tagging me in real-time.

Good.

Let them all fucking wonder. Let them gossip. Let them fear me.

Inside, the house glows with candlelight, string quartets, and soft murmurs drenched in money and ambition. It’s beautiful and toxic. It feels like a homecoming.

My friends are here. Well, what’s left of them anyway. But nothing feels safe anymore. Every hug feels loaded, every compliment like a veiled threat.

I glance around, scanning the room for Zara.

She’s not in the corner with the usual suspects, not by the champagne tower, or near the string quartet.

Unease curls in my gut. I reach for my phone and check the latest message from her : “Just arrived. Powder room in five. Save me from Fiona’s recycled speech about saving the turtles. ”

I smile faintly. That’s more like her.

I grab a glass of champagne, press it to my lips, but don’t drink.

Not tonight. Not when everything feels like a test. I set the glass down and make my way across the estate—past clinking flutes, murmurs cloaked in civility, and heels clicking on marble—toward the one place that still promises realness. The powder room.

Zara finds me inside just as I’m reapplying lip gloss, the faint scent of roses and candle wax clinging to the air.

She looks like she just walked off the cover of a fashion magazine, her floor-length emerald gown hugging every curve, her dark hair swept into a sleek, low ponytail.

She’s wearing gold hoops, an expensive clutch clutched in one hand.

Looking every bit like danger in stilettos.

We lock eyes in the mirror, and I give her a smirk.

“What an entrance,” she says, her voice cool and low. “Your bodyguard not breathing down your neck tonight?”

“He must be around here somewhere,” I reply, shrugging one shoulder and pretending the heat in my chest isn’t from the way I’ve been scanning for Silas all night and not finding him.

Zara doesn’t smile. Instead, she steps inside, closing the door behind her.

“You’ve been gone for days,” she murmurs, stepping beside me, her eyes fixed on mine in the mirror. “And you don’t return texts. You look like a woman who’s either about to win an Oscar or burn this place down.”

“Can’t it be both?”

She huffs out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, and turns toward me, her expression shifting. “Lyra,” she says. “Are you okay?”

I raise a brow. “You’ll have to be more specific. There’s a lot that’s been happening.”

“The articles…” she begins, her voice firmer now. “People are going mad online. Don’t pay any attention to them. Half of them are jealous, and the other half are just desperate for your attention.”

I look at her, then at myself and my glossed lips. There’s fire in my eyes. “I can’t do anything about it,” I whisper.

Zara reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Just know that they can’t reach you… They just want to be you.”

I don’t answer. What do I even say to that? I’m trying to be brave, but there’s only so much I can fake.

The door clicks open again. I expect another influencer or maybe someone wanting to fix their contour, but what I get is Silas.

He steps in like he owns the building, dressed in a tailored black-on-black shirt that’s unbuttoned just enough to hint at muscle, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looks dangerous and controlled, covered with the cologne that always hits like a memory and a threat.

He looks handsome tonight. God, this man’s really beautiful.

Zara grins. “Hey, Silas.”

He gives her a nod, completely unbothered. “Evening, Zar.”

Then, they fist bump. Fist bump.

“What the hell?” I blurt.

Zara winks at me. “Girl’s gotta network.”

Then she sweeps past Silas, giving me a thumbs-up behind his back like we’re at a sleepover and I just got the hottest guy in school to show up. I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips.

Silas steps closer. He doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at me like he’s cataloging every inch of skin that I’ve dared to show.

His gaze moves slowly down my throat and across my breasts, lingering just long enough to make me burn, then drops to the hem of my dress like he’s undressing me in reverse.

“You look…” he starts, then stops and tilts his head, “…dangerous.”

“Good,” I whisper, heat coiling low in my belly.

His gaze lingers on my mouth like he wants to bite it. I can practically feel the restraint in him, like he’s holding himself back from pressing me against the marble counter and showing me exactly what he thinks of this dress.

I straighten my back and let my lips part just enough to draw his attention back to them. I see the way his jaw tics and the way his eyes darken.

He wants me. And I fucking love it.

Silas takes a slow step back. His eyes never leave mine. “Take it off.”

I blink. “What?”

His voice is lower now, a quiet command that vibrates down my body. “The dress. Now.”

My breath catches, my heart lurching into my throat. This isn’t just heat anymore… it’s a fucking adrenaline spike. I should say something sarcastic and drawl out a challenge, make it a game. But instead, I nod.

My fingers tremble as I reach up and slide one strap off my shoulder. Then the other. His gaze follows every movement like he’s memorizing every inch of skin I reveal. There’s no hesitation in his stance. He’s calm, composed, and somehow radiating more danger than I’ve ever seen in him.