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He closes the space between us like it’s his right, his gaze steady and his voice as low and smooth as silk soaked in gasoline. “Take off your underwear.”

My heart stutters. “Excuse me?”

His tone doesn’t waver. It just drops even deeper. “Take them off. Now.”

I hesitate. Zara calls something from the bathroom, but it’s muffled and distant.

I reach under the gown and slip them off slowly, my fingers trembling. I hold the delicate black lace in my hand, my pulse racing like I’m standing on the edge of something huge and irreversible.

He takes them from me and slips them into his pocket, which feels more intimate than it should. Then, he slips something else into my palm.

It’s lacy, soft, and thicker than my underwear before.

I look up, confused. “What is this?”

His mouth curves into that wicked half-smile. Then, he leans in, his breath ghosting over my ear. “Put it on,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep the remote.”

My body flushes, heat spiraling low in my stomach.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to see my reaction. His gaze is careful, reading me like a map.

“I hope the last time didn’t scare you,” he says. “I understand if you don’t want to do this.”

I swallow hard, and my fingers tighten around the new lace.

“I do,” I whisper. And I mean it. God, I really do mean it.

A different kind of fire licks beneath my skin now as he walks out of the room and shuts the door behind him. I’m still wearing the midnight blue gown, but my steps are slower and heavier with anticipation.

Zara sees the look on my face and raises a brow. “Do I even want to know?”

“Nope,” I say, grabbing the champagne flute and draining it.

We finish getting ready. She is in a slinky silver dress, her hair a halo of polished curls. She looks beautiful and regal. We’re opposites on purpose. A matched set of chaos and charm.

By the time we descend the stairs, Silas is already by the car—a black SUV with tinted windows. Everything about it screams protection and danger.

He opens the back door for us. His eyes meet mine, and I smile in response as we step into the night, into the car, and into whatever the hell comes next.

Silas takes the passenger seat up front.

Zara leans toward me, whispering, “If they want a phoenix…”

I smile, blood-red and lethal. “Then they better be ready for the flames.”

The car glides to a halt outside Miraval Cliffs Resort, which is all sharp edges and curated opulence.

The coastal breeze smells like money and eucalyptus, and everything gleams like it’s been polished within an inch of its soul.

I can hear ocean waves crashing below the cliffs, a wild soundtrack for the plastic paradise above.

The main deck opens like a movie set—multi-level and draped in string lights and faux-Boho installations. White-draped lounges curve around fire pits, and branded neon signs scream things like Glow. Grow. Influence. I resist the urge to gag.

Silas opens the door and extends his hand to me, his fingers warm and sure. I slip mine into his, the touch sending a spark up my spine as he helps me out.

The moment I step out of the car, everything stops.

Conversations stall, laughter dies mid-pitch, and phone cameras rise in synchronized precision like a sniper unit with ring lights.

Everyone’s eyes land on me like I’ve walked out of a crypt instead of a black SUV. I stride forward, my heels clicking with surgical intent, the slit of my dress parting with every step like it knows this stage was built for me.

“Is that Lyra?” a voice murmurs.

“I thought she ghosted…” another voice adds.

“She looks… unbothered. That’s terrifying.”

I smile. Barely.

They’re not wrong. I look lethal and untouchable. Like the scandal never touched me, and the hiatus was a flex, not a retreat.

Then, within minutes, Harper appears, floating down the wide stone stairs like a self-anointed goddess in white chiffon with her arms outstretched.

Her smile is sharper than the diamonds strangling her wrist, and her dress flutters like purity itself, but her eyes?

Those clench around the edges. She wasn’t expecting me.

That much is clear. Her grip on the railing tightens for half a second before she pastes on more sparkle.

“Darling,” she chirps, her voice sugar-wrapped cyanide. “You came!”

I pause, letting the moment stretch to make her sweat and uncomfortable. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I respond sweetly, my voice syrupy and venomous. “I prefer to haunt in person.”

Harper’s smile strains, and her teeth clench behind glossed lips. Around us, phones are already back up, capturing every syllable and every glint in my eye like it’s a goddamn Netflix pilot.

She links her arm in mine like we’re best friends who didn’t once plot mutual destruction. “Come, everyone’s dying to see you.”

“Of course they are.”

Inside, the party is a fever dream of curated mayhem. There are champagne fountains beside therapy stations sponsored by wellness apps, microgreens, monogrammed sugar cubes, and corners for “content anxiety decompression” and photogenic panic attacks.

Zara peels away with a conspiratorial wink, off to stir drama and drink with influencers who claim shadow work but haven’t faced a single consequence.

Silas brushes past me as we enter the foyer, close enough to pass something into my Cartier clutch with a soft click.

“Recording’s live,” he murmurs under his breath. “Be careful. Everyone here’s got something to lose.”

“Good,” I whisper. “I plan on collecting debts.”

Then, I glide into the glittering madness, one razor smile at a time.

I make my rounds like a general in enemy territory, methodical, unsmiling, and deadly.

I compliment a fitness influencer’s glutes—they are phenomenal, even if she sells snake oil—clink glasses with a self-appointed mental-health guru who once called me “toxicity in heels,” and take a selfie with a lifestyle blogger who posted a Bible verse about betrayal the day after my cancellation.

Each interaction is a performance, and every compliment is a calculated dagger aimed pointedly.

The clutch stays in my hand, always, and I sip only from glasses poured in front of me. I laugh too loudly at a joke I don’t find funny, and I linger near Harper and Declan without acknowledging them, just close enough for the mic to catch every whisper.

They circle like sharks with manicures.

And every smile I give is a blade.

My phone buzzes once. It’s Silas, and the message reads: One word and I end the whole party.

I smirk, angle my heel against a step, and snap a photo.

I reply: Heel to throat ratio optimal. Stand down.

A second later, my screen lights up again. Silas replied: Is it weird that I’m proud and mildly aroused?

I bite back a grin and glance over my shoulder. He’s there, leaning against a column like a predator in repose, his hands in his pockets, his suit tailored to hell and back. He looks bored, but his eyes are locked on me like I’m his next fucking assignment.

Me: Only mildly? I must be off my game.

Silas: Oh, you’re not. You’re just dangerous.

Me: Then pray they brought first aid. Because tonight, I’m not leaving survivors.

The screen dims in my hand, Silas’s last text still throbbing in my chest like a warm threat. The flirtation lingers, sweet and sharp, but it dissolves the second I catch a glimpse of chiffon slicing through the crowd like a ghost.

Harper.

She’s gliding toward the far end of the deck, all grace and guile, like the queen of some sunlit cult. Her dress is flowing behind her like innocence incarnate, but innocence doesn’t clutch her phone that tightly and throw a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one’s following.

No one except Declan.

Her body language drips with guilt. She tries to hide it, but I see everything. She invited the wrong girl to the party, and I’m going to make sure they don’t get away with anything ever again.

He trails behind her with the reluctant obedience of a man who knows the devil’s already taken his soul and liked the taste.

I wait, count to seven, then add three more for good measure.

Zara’s off charming a group of venture capitalists in Gucci loafers and influencer lanyards while Silas is nowhere to be seen anymore, but his presence still curls at my edges like a shadow that doesn’t need light to exist.

I slip off my heels. The cool wood of the deck bites into my bare feet, grounding me and reminding me this is real and that what I’m about to hear could burn the last thread of who I was clean through.

I move silently and stealthily, weaving past lantern-lit palms and overpriced ambiance until I reach the edge of the poolside cabana. It’s veiled by a curtain of white hanging orchids trembling in the breeze like they know what’s coming.

From behind them, I see everything.

Harper throws herself onto a cushioned bench like it’s a throne, her champagne still in hand, while Declan paces beside her, agitated. The air between them buzzes with something ugly and electric.

“I thought you said she’d spiral,” Harper snaps, her words barely a whisper but sharp enough to cut through bone. “You said she’d disappear. You promised me, Declan.”

“She was supposed to,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “That video wasn’t even the full cut. If Evander hadn’t gotten cold feet…”

Harper waves her hand like she’s swatting a gnat. “Fuck Evander. He’s a coward with a yacht and commitment issues. You sold that file. Don’t lie to me.”

He stiffens and doesn’t deny it. Of course he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he finally says, his jaw clenched. “And it bought me three brand deals and a fucking condo. So if you’re going to preach at me, at least do it from a place that didn’t benefit from the fallout.”

There it is. The truth, raw and glittering.

She stares at him. “Don’t forget who helped you edit that footage. Who told you what would go viral?”

His voice drops. “I put myself at risk for you, Harper.”

Her smile is slow, curling like smoke. She leans in, a hand snaking up his chest with the same precision she uses to contour her cheekbones. “And it was worth it,” she whispers.

Then, she kisses him deeply and possessively. Her fingers tangle in the collar of his shirt like she’s marking territory, and Declan groans softly into her mouth, already lost.

That’s when it clicks.

They’re not just partners in sabotage. They’re sleeping together.

My stomach churns, and I grip my clutch so tightly that the metal frame digs into my palm.

I want to tear the orchids down, storm in, and drag them into the light. I want to scream until their carefully curated world shatters under the weight of reality. I want to see Harper’s face when she realizes I’ve heard everything, and I want Declan to choke on his own cowardice.

But I don’t. Because I’m not here for vengeance. Not yet.

I’m here for evidence.

Power isn’t in the explosion. It’s in the darkness that comes before it.

So I slip away, my steps soft as breath. My heart’s a war drum in my chest, and the orchids close gently behind me like velvet curtains after a final act.

They never even knew I was there. But they’ll feel me soon because I’m done playing by the script, and I’ve got everything I need.

I exhale for the first time in what feels like hours as my bare feet carry me back through the maze of string lights and curated chaos, adrenaline still thrumming beneath my skin.

I move like a ghost—silent, unseen, and absolutely done with this glittering charade.

I pull out my phone, my thumbs flying over the screen.

To Zara, I send: We can leave now. I’ve got what I came for. And then to Silas, I say: Exit secured. Ghost recon complete.

I don’t add any emojis. Just coded honesty.

I’m almost to the valet loop when I spot Zara leaning against a sculptural light fixture like she’s waiting for a red-carpet interview. She’s got a stolen cocktail in one hand and zero intention of pretending she belongs to anything but herself.

“Nice timing,” I say, sliding up beside her. “Planning to return that glass?”

She snorts, holding it up like a trophy. “Please. She can afford to lose one overpriced goblet. Consider it emotional damages.”

I laugh, really laugh. For the first time in days, it feels good to have the upper hand. “You’re an icon.”

Zara smirks. “Obviously.”

We walk together toward the idling SUV, a familiar black beast parked under a halo of LED palm trees. She slides in first, still sipping from her loot, and I follow, smoothing my dress, my pulse steadying.

Then, I look up. Silas is already in the front passenger seat, and he’s turned slightly in his seat.

Our eyes meet, and everything else disappears.