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She freezes, but she doesn’t turn around or speak.

I close the distance in boots that click like gunshots. “You knew.”

Finally, she turns, and her face is a mixture of guilt and excuses. “E—”

“Don’t,” I snap. “Just don’t. You knew Harper had an NDA with my father’s firm. You knew she sold me out.”

Her face goes pale. “I didn’t know everything, I swear. I knew she was meeting someone from his team, but I didn’t realize it was related to Mirage until… until it was already happening.”

I step closer. “Until what? Until my humiliation was trending on fucking Reddit?”

She winces. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “Why didn’t you say anything the second you even suspected?”

“Because you were already breaking,” she says, her voice rising. “I didn’t want to be the one to push you over the edge.”

I stare at her. “You don’t get to decide what I survive.”

She flinches, blinking too fast like she’s trying to blink the tears back before they fall. I shake my head in equal parts disbelief and disappointment.

Then, I turn and walk away.

There’s no door to slam, and no dramatic finale. There’s just the hollow ache of betrayal echoing in my boots as I leave her standing there like a stranger I used to love.

XXX

The door clicks shut behind me.

It’s late. Too late for apologies and too early to pretend nothing’s broken.

The wine glass in my hand is still full, my fingers curled around the stem like it might anchor me.

My bedroom is dark, save for the low amber light from the corner lamp, which is flickering like it’s debating whether to survive the night with me.

I’m barefoot, wrapped in a robe I don’t remember putting on. Everything feels numb, like I’m not really here, just watching some girl from a distance as she walks circles around her own ghosts.

And God, there are so many now.

My feet drift across the floor with no destination in mind. I pause at the window, but the curtain’s already drawn. Good. I can’t stand the world watching me come apart right now.

My thoughts buzz like static, no volume control or off switch.

My father. Evander fucking Vane. Power broker, politician, puppet master, and probably the man who threw me to the wolves. Did he sell me out? Or did he just look away and let someone else do it?

Elijah.

Still smooth, too clean, and fucking slick. He’s still carrying secrets in a pressed suit and half-smile. Why is he here now after all these years? Is it because the Feds finally realized I was more useful broken? Or is there something else?

And Zara.

Jesus. Zara. The girl who once held my hair back while I cried tequila into a yacht toilet. The girl who used to send me memes at 3 a.m. when I couldn’t sleep, who knew about the NDA, who knew about Harper. But said nothing.

Who the hell do I even trust now?

Silas.

My heart clenches. I don’t even know what he is to me anymore. He’s become my protector, my tormentor, and my anchor, all at once. He’s the only one who hasn’t flinched, the only one who didn’t look away when the worst of me was exposed. But even he has secrets. Even he disappears when it hurts.

And I… I’m so fucking tired. Tired of fighting, tired of faking, and tired of pretending I’m not breaking under the stress of everything.

I press a hand to my chest. My heart’s beating too fast and too hard, like it’s trying to punch its way out.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

I was supposed to build empires, not burn in the foundations of someone else’s lies. I was supposed to control the narrative, not be reduced to a headline with a clickbait thumbnail.

The wine in my glass tilts dangerously, and I jolt up, barely catching it. “Get it together, Lyra,” I sigh, whispering to the dark.

But the dark doesn’t answer. It just stares back, waiting.

And then I hear the sound of boots outside.

I freeze when I hear a creak on the floorboard near the window, the one that always gives him away.

My breath catches. And I know.

Even before the door opens, I know it’s Silas.

“Everyone wants to protect me until it’s inconvenient,” I mutter under my breath, not sure if I’m talking to the shadows or myself.

Just then, the knob turns, and the door opens.

Silas steps inside. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask for permission. I don’t have the courage to ask him to leave. I just know I don’t want to be alone any longer.

His hair is damp from the shower, with water droplets still clinging to the ends and trailing down his temples. The shirt he’s wearing—gray, thin, and clinging like a second skin—is soaked through at the collar and plastered against his chest and shoulders. His broad, solid, and familiar shoulders.

God, he looks like something out of a dream I’m not allowed to have. And I hate that just seeing him makes my lungs forget how to work.

“If you came here to tell me I’m being dramatic…” My voice is sharp, a defense mechanism carved out of weeks of betrayal and despair.

Silas doesn’t stop. He just closes the door behind him, slow and quiet, like he’s afraid to startle something wounded. “I came to make sure you weren’t alone,” he says in a low and rough voice.

I look away. Of course he did. Of course he fucking did. That’s what he always does. He shows up when the damage is done and then acts like holding me upright will stop me from falling apart.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I murmur, my fingers tightening on the glass. “I need the truth.”

He’s quiet. Then he moves.

One step. Two.

And suddenly, he’s in front of me, tall and water-soaked and ruinous. The air around him feels alive with the electricity I’ve missed more than I want to admit.

He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. His movement is light, like a whisper, as if touching me too hard might shatter what’s left. He tucks the strand behind my ear and looks at me.

My breath stutters.

It’s been days, maybe even longer, since I let anyone get close and let myself feel anything that wasn’t rage, exhaustion, or hollow fucking dread. But with him here, right here and close enough that I can smell his cologne, I remember what it’s like to want again.

Right now, I don’t want safety or peace, I just want him. But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. Because if I do, I’ll break.

So I just sit there. And I let the quiet wrap around us like a confession.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore,” I whisper, not looking at him.

Silas’s eyes don’t leave mine when he replies, “Be the one who survives it. I’ll be right here. You’re not broken, Lyra.”

I let out a shaking breath. His words hit like a match, just enough to remind me that I’m still flammable.

And in that moment, I’m not Lyra Vane, scandal magnet and PR disaster. I’m just a girl who wants someone to stay. And Silas stays.

My breath stutters. The air in the room feels heavy, ripe with all the words we haven’t said, with everything we’ve been circling around for days. And now, it snaps.

“Then show me I’m not broken,” I whisper, my voice frayed with need and trembling with the weight of everything I’ve buried.

I set the wine glass down on the dresser without looking. The crystal clinks softly, but my eyes are only on him. I step back until the backs of my legs meet the bed. “Then show me that I’m not broken,” I whisper, my voice already wrecked from want and desire.

Silas doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at me—like I’m a flame he’s willing to burn for—says everything. He shrugs off his coat and then his shirt. Each movement is slow and controlled, like he’s disarming a bomb, and I’m the live wire.

The Silas I know has vanished. In his place is a man radiating menace, his eyes glinting with a hunger that both terrifies and thrills me.

It’s still him, I know it is, but this version of Silas is unrestrained, a shadow self that craves my fear as much as my desire.

The realization sends a shiver down my spine, making my skin prickle with anticipation.

“On the carpet,” he commands, his voice low, a growl that brooks no argument.

My body moves before my mind catches up, sliding off the couch, my knees sinking into the plush carpet.

The rain outside hammers the roof, a primal drumbeat that echoes the throb in my veins.

Silas looms behind me, his presence a storm pressing against my back.

His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging in with a possessive intensity that makes my breath hitch.

He crouches behind me, the heat of his body kissing the bare skin of my back, and then his hand finds my hip—firm, grounding, and so possessive that it makes my throat go dry.

His other hand follows, trailing up my spine like he’s tracing every notch, every vertebra, and memorizing the shape of my surrender.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. His voice is different now, almost unfamiliar. “On your knees for me.”

A flush steals over my cheeks, crawling down my neck like a second skin. I don’t speak. I couldn’t if I tried.

Silas leans in. I feel the ghost of his breath on my ear before I hear his voice again. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

God. My whole body tightens.

“Yes,” I whisper. It comes out broken. Honest.

The weight of his hand settles on the back of my neck. Not cruel but not soft either. Just enough to remind me he’s there. That I’m here. That I chose this.

“Then don’t move.”

He rises behind me. I hear the low slide of a belt unbuckling, the metallic clink as it’s pulled free. My heart stutters, and my thighs clench on instinct. There’s something primal about the sound that speaks to every forbidden part of me that’s been locked away for far too long.