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I spent two more days in the same robe, same crumpled sheets, and the same lull. The kind of lull that rings in your ears like an old war wound.

The wine bottle on the nightstand is now more empty than half-full, a testament to how many times I’ve tried to take the edge off without success. Four unread emails mock me from my inbox. Each one is a professionally wrapped “fuck you” in corporate speak, saying, “We regret to inform you…”

Regret, my ass.

Two weeks ago, I was every brand’s wet dream.

LuxeMara, Vivino, GlimmerGloss, all dying to pin their labels to my body like I was some high-end mannequin with a pulse.

Hell, even a fucking start-up that sold vegan gummies for better orgasms wanted in.

And now? Crickets. No replies. No callbacks.

No we’re here for you during this difficult time bullshit.

I emailed the LuxeMara rep directly, twice. But I just got left on read—radio fucking silence—like my very existence is toxic now. Like I’ll crawl through the Wi-Fi signal and infect their PR team.

I look at the TV, which is playing some random old season of Gossip Girl . Irony of ironies. Serena van der fucking Woodsen never had to worry about revenge porn. Maybe she did… I keep forgetting the plot. But I’m sure she never had to scrub the internet for pieces of herself she didn’t authorize.

The screen glows in blues and whites, detached and artificial. I haven’t paid attention to it for hours. Maybe days.

I grab a throw pillow and hug it to my chest because it’s the only fucking soft thing around here lately.

My phone’s buried somewhere under the blankets. I dig through the tangle of sheets and pizza boxes to find it. I swipe through the messages—the same fucking garbage from the same fucking assholes.

“Bet you liked being watched.”

“Got any more vids, baby girl?”

“Your mouth looks made for sin.”

Jesus. Fuck all of them. Every horny little keyboard predator who thinks my trauma is his private fucking kink. I hope their dicks rot and fall off.

Most of the webpages hosting that video are down now. Probably Silas’s doing. That man may be the most emotionally constipated human I’ve ever met, but he doesn’t do half-measures. If anyone’s nuking the internet one burner server at a time, it’s him.

And still, no Zara.

I check her name again. Nothing. Not a single fucking message. I know she’s seen everything. Everyone has. You can’t scroll for more than ten seconds without tripping over a meme, a blurred screenshot, or a think-piece on why I deserve what happened to me.

I even get it from strangers.

But Zara? She’s supposed to be my person. My ride-or-die. My vodka-at-noon, glitter-on-the-ceiling, call-me-when-you-bury-the-body girl. And yet she’s disappeared.

Where the fuck is she now?

I tap on “Dad” in my contacts. Evander fucking Vane. But it goes to voicemail. Again. I don’t even leave one anymore. What’s the point?

“Of course,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the phone until my knuckles ache. Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. I wait a beat, like maybe, just maybe, he’ll call back immediately and say something, anything. But the screen stays blank. No reply. No missed call. Nothing.

The TV’s still playing, and Blair’s saying something about not belonging. Cute. Very relatable.

I slump further into the couch, and my robe slips down my shoulder. My skin smells like wine, dry shampoo, and shame. I haven’t showered or eaten. And I think the last time I cried, I scared myself.

This is exactly what they wanted.

The brands. The trolls. My father. They didn’t just want to humiliate me. They wanted to erase me, burn me down, and make me disappear.

And I think maybe… maybe they’re succeeding. Maybe this version of Lyra Vane is already ash.

“Right. Of course,” I mutter, my voice thick with sarcasm and something dangerously close to tears. I throw the phone across the room. It bounces off a pillow and hits the hardwood floor with a dull, final-sounding clack—the kind that echoes.

Maybe it’ll shatter. Maybe that would be easier. One more broken thing in a house full of ghosts.

The TV is still playing. Now it’s showing some commercial—a woman zoning out on her couch, eyes glued to the screen.

Yeah. Relatable. .

I sink deeper into the couch, my robe bunching up around me, threatening to suffocate. My legs curl beneath me like I’m trying to disappear into myself.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe my brief flicker of fame was all I got—a footnote in someone else’s headline. I won’t ever be seen for who I am, just remembered as my father’s daughter.

The scandal. The shame. The cautionary tale.

No matter what I do, I’ll always be tethered to his name and spotlight.

And that’s the worst part.

Not the fall.

But the fact that I was never really standing on my own to begin with.