Page 41

I stand barefoot on the cool marble floor of the Vane Estate library, staring at a shelf lined with my mother’s journals and favorite books.

The journals are slim and leather-bound, each one tied with a sleek cord like secrets begging not to be disturbed. They smell faintly of dried jasmine and old grief, a name that’s buried deep.

Inside are her poems and her favorite passages from forgotten novels and ancient texts, fragments of a woman who lived half in this world and half in her own.

But not the real secrets. Not the ones that matter. Those aren’t here.

Outside, the storm presses against the glass like it wants in. I know the feeling. Because I’ve already let it in.

I’m wearing one of Silas’s shirts that was left in my room.

It’s oversized, faded black, and smells like his cologne.

It slides off one shoulder, clinging in places I don’t want to think about.

I tell myself I grabbed it because it was close.

Because it was clean. Not because I miss him.

Not because I haven’t seen him in days, and it’s slowly driving me insane.

We’re living under the same roof, but it feels like we’re miles apart.

My phone buzzes on the reading table beside me, jolting me out of my spiral like a slap.

It’s a message from Zara, and it says, “Blake wants to meet. Neutral ground. Please go.”

I snort—the kind of disbelieving, bitter sound that tastes like acid.

Blake? Seriously? The Fed with the tailored suits and empty eyes? What the actual fuck is he still doing in my life? I know it’s selfish to think that, considering I cashed in a favor just a few weeks ago, but honestly, I don’t have enough fucks to give right now.

And Zara… God, Zara decides now is the time to crawl out of whatever guilt-soaked rock she’s been hiding under? After radio silence for days? She thinks a little text is enough to patch over betrayal? Like we’re still two brats on a penthouse rooftop, drunk on stolen vodka and each other’s secrets?

My fingers twitch around my phone, the urge to throw it just barely suppressed.

I turn toward the glass pane behind me and catch my reflection. Jesus. I look like a headline waiting to happen. Disheveled Heiress Spirals Into Hermit Chic.

My hair’s a rat’s nest, my eyes are swollen and red, my skin is patchy like a bad foundation job at a bargain salon, and Silas’s shirt is hanging on me like a disaster’s aftermath.

That won’t do. That won’t fucking do.

I storm across the estate like a woman possessed. I storm back to my room, slam the door, and fling the shirt onto the bed like it cursed at me. Then, I step into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and crank the heat until steam billows around me like battle smoke.

The water scalds me. Good.

I scrub like I’m trying to erase the last week, my past, and my name. I use shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and luxury products meant to soothe, which are now being used like weapons. By the time I step out, my skin’s red and raw. And I feel new. Not totally clean, but better.

Time to pick a deadly weapon.

I go for straight black jeans, boots that could kick down reputations, and a midnight-blue satin blouse that’s cut low enough to start rumors and end conversations.

My lipstick is blood-red, my eyes winged like a threat.

My hair’s also curled into soft spirals, a siren’s halo.

I dab my mother’s expensive and enchanting perfume behind my ears and across my wrists.

The scent hits me like a ghost, like whispered curses and glittering expectations. It feels like love dressed up as poison.

I’m going to make them look. Make them talk.

By the time I click the door shut behind me, the echo isn’t of defeat but a fucking war drum.

Let the bastards remember why I was dangerous.

I’m no longer Lyra the torn daughter, the viral slut, and the whisper on every forum.

I’m Lyra Vane again.

I come face to face with Sebastian, my driver, who’s standing there in his charcoal suit, his eyes darting everywhere except at me.

His jaw is tight, and his ears are practically glowing red with guilt, humiliation, and avoidance.

The holy trinity of someone who’s definitely seen something they weren’t supposed to.

I raise one perfectly shaped brow and mutter, “Great. Even my driver saw me fucking myself.”

Sebastian clears his throat but says nothing, stepping aside with mechanical precision. I strut past him like the goddamn scandal queen I am, my heels tapping out defiance with every step.

He opens the car door for me, still avoiding eye contact like it might blind him.

I slide into the backseat, smooth and poised, and the door shuts me in with a muted thud.

Now it’s time to face whatever bullshit Zara thinks she has to offer.

XXX

People don’t always stab you in the back. Sometimes, they kiss you on the cheek while twisting the knife, and then call it love.

Willowridge Café is too fucking bright for secrets.

The air reeks of over-steamed milk and deceit.

It’s the kind of place where everyone pretends not to be listening, while leaning in just enough to catch every word.

The sun is out in full force, exposing every crack in my perfectly constructed outfit.

It’s like a fucking spotlight on my shame.

Zara waits by the door. She’s all gloss and grace in a blouse, with those ridiculous heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her head and her designer bag clutched like a trophy. She waves nervously when she sees me, like she’s hoping I’ll smile back and not set fire to the entire street.

Spoiler alert: I don’t smile.

I step out of the car in full “fuck around and find out” mode—dark red lipstick, heels that could kill, and a satin top so sharp that it should come with a disclaimer.

I walk like I own the sidewalk, like I haven’t spent the last week quietly coming apart at the seams. I can’t let them see that the scandal got under my skin.

When I approach her, she pulls me into a hug that I don’t return.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she murmurs, her voice tight and forced.

“Neither was I,” I reply.

Inside, the café is all faux charm and polished wood. Basically, small-town gossip disguised as brunch. I don’t belong here anymore. But I slide into the booth like I do.

He’s already waiting.

Elijah Blake. The Fed. The ghost from another life.

He’s still tall, still disgustingly clean-cut.

His navy suit is sharp enough to cut glass, and his tie is the kind you wear to testify before Congress.

He’s sitting with a coffee in front of him, and it’s untouched and burning hot, just the way he likes it.

It’s like he’s allergic to chaos unless he’s the one orchestrating it. When he sees me, he rises.

“Lyra,” he greets me, his tone warm but wary.

“Elijah fucking Blake,” I shoot back. I sit across from him without waiting for an invitation. Zara follows like a shadow and slides into the booth beside me.

“It’s been years,” he says, his eyes tracking every inch of me. “You look—”

“Don’t,” I cut in, pulling off my sunglasses. “You don’t get to say that. Please… not right now.”

I know it’s irrational, lashing out at Elijah and Zara, but right now, I’m too pissed to think straight.

He nods with no argument. “Fair enough.”

Zara fidgets with her straw. I glance sideways, daring her to speak, but she doesn’t.

Elijah reaches into his bag, pulls out a thin manila folder, and places it between us, sliding it across the table like a bribe or a bomb. I don’t touch it.

“Two weeks ago, one of our cybercrime analysts picked up chatter on a flagged node. The traffic rerouted through a Mirage server,” he says calmly. “You know them?”

“Mirage,” I echo. “That influencer marketing firm with the neon aesthetic and shady-as-fuck contracts?”

“Officially, yeah. Unofficially, they’re used for influence operations, soft disinformation, social narrative bending, and corporate blackmail buried under PR stunts.”

“Why the hell would Mirage care about me?”

Elijah doesn’t blink. “Because someone gave them clearance to run a narrative campaign through Vane PR’s digital arm. On paper, it’s just optics management. But underneath…”

I freeze. My dad’s name is already forming in my mouth like a poison I’ve swallowed too many times. “My father’s campaign?” I ask. Slowly. Carefully.

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t deny it either, which tells me everything.

For a moment, the world shifts, and the floor tilts. I’m not surprised. This just confirms my suspicions. It’s fucked-up, I know.

Daddy dearest, Evander Vane, has always treated me like a brand asset with mood swings. A liability in red lipstick. Of course he’d sell me out to cover his own tracks. Of course he’d authorize whatever this is—an op, a leak, a humiliation campaign—to keep the spotlight off of me.

I stare at the folder. Unopened and ugly.

“So I’m not the problem,” I say bitterly. “I’m just the distraction. The decoy.”

“Let’s just say,” Elijah murmurs, “it would make more sense if you were the smokescreen. Not the target.”

I laugh. Loud and broken. People turn to look at me, but I don’t fucking care. Zara shifts in her seat, shrinking like she might disappear under the table.

Elijah leans back, looking certain. “Nothing in your life has ever happened by accident.”

My voice goes flat. “Why now? Why tell me this now?”

“Because this time,” Elijah says quietly, “you’re not just bait. You’re the detonator.”

I don’t ask him to explain. I don’t want to hear more than I already have.

I’m tired—bone-deep and soul-worn tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. It’s the kind that comes from being used, watched, and played like a piece on someone else’s board.

I don’t want more truths. I just want a moment where nothing explodes.

We leave the café together, but I walk ahead, needing air. Needing space. Needing…

Zara.

She’s trying to slink off, heading toward the valet line like she can escape the fallout.

“Hey,” I call out sharply.