Page 38

I can’t believe I’m sitting in an abandoned parking lot in the middle of the goddamn night.

It’s the perfect place to get mugged, stabbed, or abducted by a cult of influencer-worshipping serial killers.

The shadows are thick enough to choke on, pooling around the Dodge like spilled ink.

This is the kind of place where secrets change hands with blood money, and nobody hears you scream over the sound of a dying streetlamp.

The air stinks of rust, stale beer, and asphalt that’s seen more broken promises than tire tracks.

It’s the kind of quiet that sets your nerves on edge, twitchy and coiled, like the world’s holding its breath waiting for the next scream.

It’s romantic, maybe, if you’re into noir fantasies about betrayal, blackmail, and revenge delivered from the backseat of a slowly dying car.

The air also reeks of rust and wet concrete, and the almost dead streetlamp flickers like it’s trying to give me a seizure, casting the occasional ghost of light across the cracked asphalt.

I’m in the Dodge with the engine off, tucked into the shadows like I was born here.

I wear a black cap pulled low and a hoodie zipped halfway over a Henley that’s endured more firefights than fashion shows.

My laptop balances on one knee, whirring with surveillance feeds.

My camera lens is aimed dead center through a grimy windshield at the white BMW two spots over.

Inside the Bimmer are Harper and Declan, Lyra’s fake friends turned backstabbers of the year. Glamorous, sociopathic, and the kind of people who’d smile for the cameras while digging a grave behind the scenes.

Declan’s in a jacket worth more than the Dodge, tapping his fingers on the wheel like he’s practicing to snort confidence lines off it while Harper’s dripping in skin-tight malice, her hair slicked back like she’s about to strut down a catwalk of corpses.

They’re arguing, their bodies sharp with edginess.

Declan’s posture says control, but Harper’s unraveling, and her hands slash the air like she’s trying to erase something.

My phone’s propped on the console, Lyra’s bedroom feed glowing. She’s sleeping. Finally. With one arm curled under her cheek, her lips slightly parted. Even in nightmares, she looks like art. And I… well, I stare like a sinner in church.

Then I hit record. The mic picks up faint voices from the BMW. It’s not much, but enough. The rest I can make out by reading their lips.

Harper: “It’s too early.”

Declan: “She’s losing followers. It’s working.”

Harper leans in closer, her voice low and certain: “Evander will cave soon.”

That last line hits me like a sniper round to the ribs.

Evander? What the hell? That can’t be right. Evander can’t be working with these cowards. He doesn’t bend or break. He orchestrates.

We’re talking about the same man who raised Lyra like a living PR strategy—a trophy with a heartbeat. Every inch of his image is curated, his every word calculated.

He’s not some fragile old man lost in a decanter of Bordeaux. Evander doesn’t get played. He plays.

So if Harper and Declan think he’s working with them… they’re mistaken. He’s in the game. I think it’s worse; he’s been in it the whole time.

Suddenly, everything smells like smoke. Not panic or damage control, but strategy.

This isn’t manipulation. This reeks of conspiracy.

If Evander’s involved, then this isn’t just a scandal. It’s a move. A measured one.

Evander isn’t collapsing under pressure. He’s the one who’s applying it.

He’s the kind of bastard who burns down his own house just to see who runs from the fire. And I’ve got a sick feeling we’re all already breathing in the ash.

He always hated Declan’s family. Westwood Hotels were the competition until they got entangled in some tax fraud mess, at which time, Pierce Holdings practically begged for bailouts. Evander spat on that legacy and said it was weak-blooded. So what the hell are his fingerprints doing in this mess?

My pulse thuds. Could all this have been his play from the start? To discredit Lyra? Break her spirit? Pull her back under his control?

Or worse, was this to protect something else entirely?

Because if Evander Vane is involved with Harper and Declan, then this isn’t just betrayal. This is war.

And Lyra is not just a pawn. She’s the goddamn queen they’re trying to box in. And that one slaps like a sucker punch.

What the fuck is happening?

If I were an ordinary person, my head would be spinning right now.

Instead, I’m charged and wired like a live wire ready to snap.

I reroute their burner phone signals to my backup server, clone the numbers, and clone the threads. I’m in their inbox before they even finish their hissy fit.

“Tell me what you’re selling. And I’ll find out who paid the price.”

My laptop beeps with an incoming message that says, “ Meet me at Black Lungs Bar in an hour.”

I stare at the screen. Then I laugh, a short, sharp sound that barely feels human. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Black Lungs Bar is a hellhole with a liquor license. It’s the kind of place where neon signs flicker like they’re afraid to stay lit, and no one ever makes eye contact unless they’re looking for a fight. It smells like old beer, puke, and a metallic scent that no mop ever fully cleans.

The floor’s always sticky, like it’s trying to trap you.

The booths are torn vinyl and bleach-stained wood—places you sit only if you’ve given up on dignity.

Half the regulars carry weapons, and the other half are weapons.

The bartenders don’t smile. Instead, they size you up.

And yes, they carry Tasers. You learn that fast.

Black Lungs is where you go to get stabbed in the parking lot or offered a suitcase of bad decisions. It’s not neutral ground. It’s no man’s land .

I mutter to myself, already slamming the laptop shut and throwing my bag over my shoulder, “Perfect. Nothing says, ‘confidential intel’ like a beer-soaked crime scene.”

But I’m going.

Because if this woman’s reaching out now with what’s going on, she’s either brave, reckless, or scared enough to finally matter.

And honestly, I don’t care which. Just as long as she talks before I lose my grip.