Page 33

I sit on the edge of my bed, my phone screen lighting up as I scroll through the endless stream of notifications.

My fingers swipe over the pictures from the charity gala last night—gorgeous shots and perfectly staged moments that look like they belong in a glossy magazine.

It’s the kind of thing I’m used to, the kind of thing that makes the whole world want a piece of me.

I used to thrive on this. I used to feel like I owned it.

But today’s different.

I run my thumb over the photos again. The shots of me with Harper and the others in the crowd, perfectly composed, my smile poised like I’m the queen of everything.

I’d gotten so many likes and comments already.

The brand deals are rolling in—one for a skincare line and another for a high-end clothing line that I’ll get paid handsomely for just to be seen wearing their shit for a few hours.

My fingers dance across the screen, answering the easy messages and the sponsors I know are just here for my name and my image.

I should be thrilled, right?

But the phone feels heavier in my hands with each new message.

I can’t escape the gnawing feeling that something’s off.

It’s the restlessness in my chest that’s been there since last night, like the entire fucking world has been thrown out of balance.

But I’m not going to let it get to me. Not now. I need this. I need to focus.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

I don’t have to ask who it is. That knock is familiar—controlled, confident, and just on the edge of impatient. Not many people come to my door these days. No one but him.

Silas.

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over a reply to a message from a brand manager in LA.

Another event. Another red carpet. Another chance to pretend I’m not unraveling inside the couture.

I’ve been getting more of those lately. The gala stirred up the right kind of buzz—polished mayhem dressed in diamonds.

Even with the rumors, the whispers, and the carefully constructed speculation…

they still want me. Maybe even more than before.

That’s the power of a good publicist.

That’s what I’m worth now, even with the cracks in my perfect little world.

“ Lyra. ” His voice slips through the door, low and even. Too steady. “You’re not answering your messages.”

I sigh and toss the phone on the bed, already regretting it as I cross the room. I should ignore him. I want to ignore him. But I also know myself, and I’m not that strong tonight.

The door swings open. And there he is.

Tall and composed. His frame fills the doorway like it was built to fit there, dressed down in dark jeans and a fitted black tee that clings a little too well.

His eyes sweep over me, pausing just long enough to make my skin prickle.

But it’s not lust that throws me. It’s the way he looks at me like he sees something beneath the surface that I’m working so hard to hide.

He steps in without waiting for permission, his presence filling the room like it always does, quiet, controlled, and impossible to ignore. He pauses just a few steps in, his eyes scanning me not with suspicion but something gentler. Steadier.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, softened at the edges.

“I’m fine,” I say, and for once, I don’t have to fake it. “Actually… I’ve just been busy.”

His brow lifts slightly. “You haven’t left your room all day.”

I shrug, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“You wouldn’t believe how many DMs I’ve gotten since the gala.

Brand offers. Event invites. People I haven’t heard from in years suddenly remember I exist.” I shake my head, half amused, half exasperated.

“It’s been a circus, but not the bad kind for once. ”

His eyes stay on me for a beat longer, like he’s not just hearing the words but measuring the way I say them. The smile. The ease.

And maybe he sees it… that my mood has shifted. His hand lifts to touch my face, just a light brush of knuckles along my jaw. And before I can overthink it, he leans in and kisses me.

It’s quick. No heat or fire. Just warm, steady pressure. It’s a kiss that says I’m here, not I want you.

That alone disarms me more than if he’d pinned me to the wall.

When he pulls back, his gaze lingers on mine for a breath too long. “I’ll be out for a while,” he says. “I just wanted to check on you before I left.”

Then, just like that, he’s gone, his boots soft on the hall floor, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stand there frozen, my lips tingling, my heart somewhere in my throat. That’s never happened before. Not with him. Not with anyone.

I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room. My cheeks are flushed, my mouth slightly parted. Blushing? Seriously? What the hell is wrong with me?

I shake it off.

There’s no time for this. No time for softness or misread signals or whatever the hell that was. I’ve worked too hard to get back to the top. To rebuild. To own my image again.

I grab my phone and slide back onto the bed, scrolling through the string of unread messages. A brand manager wants to fly me out to LA next week, while another one’s offering a partnership with a skincare line. My name is hot again. My inbox proves it.

I pretty much spend the whole afternoon going through my inbox and DMs. Time flies when you’re on top.

Finally, I get up to stretch a little. I glance back at my phone just as it buzzes with a new message.

This time, it’s from a different number, one I don’t recognize.

My heart skips, a twist of unease creeping into my stomach.

I swipe the screen open, thinking it’s probably just one of those annoying text spammers that I’ve grown used to.

Except it’s not.

A link appears with a message that says, “Heard you like to put on a show. We all got a glimpse last night, didn’t we?”

My fingers freeze. The words blur as I stare at the screen, the dread in my chest spreading faster than I can process the message.

What the hell is this? I hit the link.

The next moment, I feel like I’ve just been hit by a fucking tidal wave.

Images. Videos. Shots from last night’s gala, but not the ones I’ve already seen. The camera angles are wrong and uncomfortably close. And there I am. In ways no one should see. In ways that I didn’t give permission to be seen.

I’m naked and on the counter in the powder room.

My hands are shaking now, and I can barely see the screen because of the tears in my eyes.

I’m moaning as I touch myself, not with my finger but with Silas’s gun.

Fuck. A strained gasp escapes my throat as I tilt my head back in the video.

I barely recognize that girl as her moans fill my ears.

The video doesn’t seem to stop. It keeps going on for a full minute as I sit there and fuck myself shamelessly.

The video stops at me with my face up, the butt of the gun on my clit, my toes curled, my mouth open.

Bile rises in my throat, and my phone slips from my hands.

Who the fuck would do this?

My heart slams against my ribs as my hands tremble.

I don’t even know how to process the shock, the disgust, the violation.

How could anyone— anyone —get their hands on these?

I try to calm myself, but dark, terrifying thoughts start to spin.

It’s out there, and it’s already spreading.

I can no longer go outside without people seeing this.

I scramble to close the link, but the damage is done. I know what’s out there. What’s been shared.

I pull my knees up to my chest, suddenly feeling like the walls are closing in around me. I’ve never felt this exposed before. Not like this. Not in this way. And I can’t breathe.

I was finally happy with my social life, and it didn’t even last a full day.

The phone buzzes again. It’s Silas. His name flashing on the screen makes my heart skip, but I can’t answer. Not now. Not when the world is watching me fall apart.

I swallow the panic rising in my throat, press the heels of my palms against my eyes, and try to block out the overwhelming feelings of shame.

I need air.

I push off the bed and pace the room in an attempt to clear my head, but all I can hear is the buzz of my phone, each notification a reminder of the destruction that’s come crashing into my life. It feels like I’m being crushed under the burden of it all.

And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know where to go from here. And all I can do is wait for whatever comes next.

I can’t fucking breathe.

The air feels thick. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, smothering me. My chest is tight, my heart pounding in my ears, and I’m sure I’m about to break in half.

I stare at my phone, which was dropped like a bombshell earlier, and everything starts to blur. My notification lights up again. Another message. Another link. The screen flashes continually, a constant reminder of the irreversible damage done.

The room feels too small. My thoughts race, but they’re all scattered, disjointed, and incoherent. How could anyone have done this? How could someone invade my life like this, like I was just another piece of meat to be exploited?

Who did this?

A wave of nausea rises in my stomach. My head spins, my pulse is erratic, and my hands shake so violently that I can’t even hold the damn phone anymore.

It slips from my grip and falls on the bed beside me, but my eyes don’t leave the screen.

I can’t look away from what I’ve seen, even though I wish I could.

Even though I want to tear the fucking thing into pieces.

I should have been prepared for this. I should have known better. But I didn’t.

The implications are too much to process at once. I feel exposed and raw, like the entire world can see the things I’ve always kept hidden. My privacy, my body, my thoughts, it’s all out there now for anyone to scrutinize, to comment on, to own.

Tears start to well up, but I refuse to let them fall. I can’t. Not now. Not when everything feels like it’s falling apart around me. I clench my fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands just to feel something else, anything else.

But nothing can stop the hurt. Nothing can erase what has happened.

I want to scream. I want to destroy everything in my path. I want to tear down the walls and burn it all to the ground, but I can’t. Because the truth is, I’m powerless. I’m helpless. I’m exposed.

A small sob breaks free from my lips before I can stop it, and I quickly wipe it away, swallowing the lump in my throat. I can’t afford to fall apart. Not yet. Not until I know who did this to me. Not until I figure out how to make it stop.

I grab my phone again and stare at the screen, but I can’t bring myself to open any more links. Instead, I send a text to Silas, saying, I need you. Come back. Please.

I don’t even know if I’ll get a response. I don’t know if he’s even close by, or if he’ll even care enough to rush back to me. But I don’t want to be alone. Not like this.

Hours pass, and the world feels so fucking joyless. The house, once a sanctuary, now feels like a prison. Every corner feels like it’s watching me, every wall closing in on me.

But then, just as I’m about to send another text, I hear the sound of footsteps.

It’s Silas.

He’s here.

I don’t even think about it. I just yank open the door and stand in front of him before he has a chance to say a word. I’m trembling, my body on the verge of falling apart.

He’s standing in the doorway, his eyes wide and immediately taking in the state I’m in.

He steps closer, his expression inscrutable, but I can see a flicker of something in his gaze.

Anger. Fear. It’s a split-second moment, but it’s enough for me to know that whatever the hell just happened, he’s pissed.

Not at me, but at whatever’s been done to me. And that’s enough.

He pulls me into his arms without a word.

His warmth is a comfort, and yet it only makes the ache inside my chest worse.

I feel the floodgates threatening to open, and I bury my face into his chest, trying to hide the pain, the shame, and the overwhelming sense of betrayal that clings to every inch of me.

Silas’s voice is low when he speaks. “Who did this, Lyra?”

I can’t answer. I can’t bring myself to say the words, to even think anything. Because if I do, it makes it real. I have no idea. It makes this nightmare something that’s actually happening to me.

His hands gently grip my shoulders, pulling me back slightly so he can look at me.

His eyes are filled with concern, but there’s also that same intensity I’ve come to associate with him.

There’s determination and a kind of ferocity that I’m scared of because it means he’s going to go to extreme lengths to fix this. And that scares the shit out of me.

“Who, Lyra?” His voice is a soft command, urging me to tell him.

But I can’t. I don’t know. I’m too lost in the mess of emotions to focus on anything but the panic rising in my throat.

“I don’t know,” I finally whisper, my voice cracking. “I don’t know who did this.”

The tears I’ve been holding back start to spill over, and I let them.

I don’t care anymore. I’m a fucking mess, and I don’t care.

I don’t care about anything except for the fact that my life is now on display for the world to see.

I’m on display for the world to see. My body, in its most vulnerable state.

Silas pulls me in tighter, his arms wrapping around me like a shield. “I’m going to fix this,” he says, his voice so steady and so calm that it almost gives me a false sense of security.

But I don’t believe him… not completely. Even though I want to. I want to believe he can fix this. But how can he fix this? How can anyone fix something like this?

I press my face into his chest again, the sobs coming harder now.

I don’t care about the brand deals, the cameras, or the lies.

All I want is to be normal again. To be Lyra Vane, the woman in control, the woman who’s always been untouchable.

But that woman is gone now. And all that’s left is the broken girl standing in front of him, the girl who’s unsure of how to put herself back together.