Page 50

The envelope is thick and pretentious, and it smells like a fucking department store perfume counter. Of course it does. Harper wouldn’t know subtlety if it kicked her in the face with a six-inch Louboutin.

I stare at the embossed gold lettering like it’s a curse in cursive. Miraval Cliffs Resort cordially invites you… Blah blah blah. Champagne. “Influencer Experience.” Translation? Vanity circus meets desperate reputation rehab. It’s not an invite. It’s a fucking challenge.

My fingers hesitate over the paper and then brush the wax seal like it might burn me. Maybe it already has. My name in calligraphy, Miss Lyra Vane , mocks me like it belongs to someone who still matters.

Besides the video, I haven’t posted normally for weeks. Not a photo, not a cryptic story, not even a blackout square. I left the internet on read. Let them stew. Let the whispers multiply like rats in the walls. They wanted me cancelled? Cool. I went on a hiatus instead.

But it’s also… lonely. It’s claustrophobic.

It’s the kind of quiet that echoes in my head instead of being soothing.

Every morning I wake up hoping to feel normal again, and every night I drink just enough to blur the sharp edges.

I’ve been repeating the same unhealthy cycle, and looking at the envelope, I realize nobody actually cares.

The sun slices across my living room in this almost perfect angle that makes everything look like an Instagram filter gone wrong.

I sit barefoot on the floor in an old band tee and underwear, my legs splayed like I own the space, which I do.

Half a bottle of overpriced Malbec sweats on the table beside me.

I twirl the invite between my fingers. It glints, gaudy and fake. Just like Harper.

I know why she sent it. It’s not a peace offering. It’s a trap. She doesn’t think I’ll show. Hell, she’s counting on it. That’s why she made the invite smell like a damn perfume ad, something to get tossed in the trash with the last shreds of my public image.

But here’s the thing. I’m ready for a challenge. I’m fucking tired of being everyone’s pawn.

Do I want to go? Hell no. The thought alone makes my stomach churn. My pulse stutters every time I imagine walking through those doors and seeing the cameras, eyes, and fake smiles that are sharper than switchblades.

I’m scared. Fuck, I’m scared . What if they laugh? What if they whisper? What if no one says anything at all, like I don’t even exist anymore?

But hiding in my room and drinking wine until my legs forget how to hold me up isn’t living. It’s not even surviving. It’s rotting with pretty pillows and blackout curtains.

And what better way to shove a middle finger in the face of the whole curated circus than to crash Harper’s glitter-drenched rehab-for-your-reputation gala?

The place where everyone’s pretending they’re not two seconds from clawing each other’s eyes out over likes and affiliate codes as though nothing matters more than that.

My phone buzzes. It’s Zara. She’s been texting me constantly, but I haven’t replied. I think it’s time I resurrect my friendship.

I bite my lip and hit dial.

“Took you long enough,” she answers, her voice warm and a little scratchy from too many late nights and overpriced vape pens. It’s the voice of someone who knows too much yet still cares anyway.

“You wouldn’t believe what just arrived,” I say, eyeing the invitation like it’s a loaded gun with glitter accents.

“Let me guess,” she drawls. “Gold embossed? Smells like synthetic vanilla and influencer desperation?”

I snort. “Exactly. It’s practically a scented threat. From Harper.”

Zara groans. “God, that woman has the subtlety of a chainsaw in a slip dress. So what are you thinking?”

I pause, staring at the wax seal like it might open its eyes and bite me. “I’m thinking I need to stop rotting in here. I need to show up and prove I’m not dead. And not afraid…”

She pauses in thought before replying, “Harper probably only sent it to get credit for being inclusive and considerate, knowing damn well you wouldn’t actually come.”

“That’s what makes it so tempting,” I say. “She’s not ready to see me. Not like this.”

“Vengeful and smoking hot? Yeah, probably not,” Zara says, a smile curling in her voice. “You going alone?”

“I wasn’t planning to. But I guess I hadn’t figured that part out yet.”

“Well, lucky for you, I just canceled plans with a man who says ‘crypto’ unironically,” she replies. “I’ll be at your place in an hour. We’ve got to make sure you look like the second coming of wrath in couture.”

I burst into laughter, my first real laugh in days. “You’re such a bad influence.”

“Says the woman plotting a social resurrection in a thigh-high slit.”

We’re both likely grinning, the phone heavy with shared history.

Then, Zara’s voice drops and becomes soft. “I missed you, El.”

I sigh. “I missed you too, Zar.”

We hang up. And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m breathing again.

I press the invitation flat on the coffee table and stare at it like it’s a map to my own damn resurrection.

This isn’t redemption. This is war.

And I’m done bleeding. It’s about time I made someone else hurt for a change.

XXX

Zara shows up exactly fifty-two minutes after we hang up, her giant faux-fur coat trailing behind her like she’s starring in her own private movie.

She doesn’t knock on my door. She never does.

The door swings open, and she bursts in, her arms full of makeup bags, shoes, and a bottle of pink champagne chilled to near-frostbite.

“Tell me you haven’t put on anything yet,” she says by way of greeting.

“Unless you count mood swings and eye cream, then no,” I deadpan.

She grins. “Perfect. Strip. We’re doing everything from scratch.”

What follows is two hours of chaotic bliss.

My bathroom turns into a warzone of highlighters, hair straighteners, perfume samples, and sequins.

Zara’s in a soft pink silk robe with her hair up in a messy bun that somehow looks editorial.

I’m barefaced and wrapped in a towel with my legs crossed on the vanity counter as she lines up lipsticks like ammunition.

“Tonight,” she says, “you’re not just showing up. You’re declaring war on that bitch.”

We pick the gown together—a slinky midnight blue slip dress from Galliano’s limited line, the kind that costs more than rent and looks like it was stitched together with whispered threats and molten sin.

The fabric is bias-cut and like liquid against my skin, flowing over my curves like it’s worshiping them.

With every step, it whispers promises I don’t remember agreeing to.

The slit rides high enough to leave very little to the imagination—thigh-baring, dangerous, and fucking shameless.

The neckline, on the other hand, plunges with precision, showing just enough cleavage to remind people that I know exactly what I’m doing.

It doesn’t beg for attention; it demands it.

It says, Look at me. I dare you. And I bite.

We sweep my hair into a tight, elegant updo, severe and regal, the kind of style that looks like it could cut glass.

But Zara leaves a few strands loose, curling them so they frame my face with intentional softness, like the memory of something more delicate.

The contrast is sharp—the ruthless knot at the back of my head versus the gentle curls that kiss my cheekbones.

We mist it with an expensive and vaguely floral perfume, and the scent lingers like a secret.

Zara lines my lips with the precision of a sniper, then fills them in with a red so dark that it’s almost black, a color that promises seduction and revenge in equal measure.

I look in the mirror and almost don’t recognize myself.

Lyra Vane is back.

Then there’s a knock, sharp and certain, with a kind of quiet authority that takes up space without raising its voice.

I freeze. My heart kicks once, hard. I already know who it is. Every nerve in my body is on edge, like it recognizes the rhythm, the presence, and the gravity standing on the other side of the door.

I glance at Zara, who rolls her eyes like she already knows how this is going to go. I can’t help but grin. With a breath that doesn’t do a damn thing to steady me, I open the door and step out, letting it click softly behind me.

It’s just me and him now, standing in the quiet hush of the hallway.

He looks like he was carved from shadow and sin in a midnight black suit tailored to brutal perfection and a crisp white shirt undone at the collar just enough to reveal the edge of that ink on his skin, the one that I know maps more secrets than roads.

His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark and focused like I’m the only thing holding his attention tonight.

And fuck, he smells like cedar, danger, and sex.

His eyes drag over me, slow and lustful, lingering at the deep plunge of my neckline and the way the fabric clings to my hips like a second skin. There’s nothing polite in his gaze—it’s barely leashed hunger, restrained only by whatever thin thread of control he’s holding onto.

I can feel the heat and the extent of it, like his stare is touching places his hands haven’t reached yet.

My skin prickles under the attention, and suddenly, I want to ditch the party, the plan, and the war.

I just want him. His mouth, his hands, and the fire between us that’s been smoldering way too long.

I forget the party. I forget the plan. I forget my name.

My breath catches, and my legs, traitorous bastards, nearly buckle.

He steps inside and shuts the bedroom door behind him with the kind of care that feels more ominous than if he’d slammed it.

From the bathroom, Zara yells playfully, “Whatever you two are doing, keep it PG, or at least don’t ruin her makeup, Silas!”

He smirks slightly, his eyes still locked on mine. “Not a smudge,” he murmurs, but there’s tension crackling under my skin, which feels unbearably hot.