Page 55

The walls are white. Aggressively white. No logos, brand marks, sponsor decals, or hashtags pretending to be edgy in the corners. Just a blank space, raw, unbothered, and honest. Probably the most honest place I’ve stood in since my mother’s funeral.

Zara paid cash for the media studio, so no contracts, questions, or paper trail. She said it used to be a meditation retreat for burned-out creatives. I don’t doubt it. The place still smells like patchouli, regret, and the kind of silence that makes you confront your entire existence.

I’m standing in front of a white backdrop, the camera’s lens blinking at me like it knows what I’m about to say. Zara’s behind the monitor, cue cards in hand, just in case I fall apart.

But I won’t.

The camera clicks to life. The red light blinks, and I look dead into its eye.

This isn’t going to be polished. Or scripted. Or padded with filters and soft-core background music. This is the guillotine going live.

“My name is Lyra Vane,” I start, my voice sharp, steel-wrapped. “And I’m done letting everyone else tell my fucking story. I’ve done this before, but let’s just say there’s a need for it again, considering I’m tired of dealing with backstabbing bastards.”

I take a slow breath, locking eyes with the lens like it owes me something.

“Let’s start with Harper Eden, the influencer with the most curated trauma on the internet.

She wasn’t just my friend. She was my executioner.

Harper worked directly with a digital PR firm contracted by my father.

Yes, the same father who controls the Vane Foundation and happens to treat ethics like they’re a casual hobby. ”

I lean forward slightly.

“She sold access to my accounts. She seeded fake narratives on forums and gossip sites. Texts, obtained and verified, show her orchestrating a digital smear campaign against me using negative SEO flooding, shadowbanned posts, and ghost comment farms.”

I lift a hand and open my palm. Calm. Deadly.

“And Declan Pierce? Let’s talk about him. He wasn’t just the leak. He was the damn pipeline. We have audio, yes, actual audio, of him laughing and saying, and I quote: ‘This’ll tank her brand just enough for sympathy redemption. Soft fall. Quick climb. Net gain.’”

I shake my head, a slow, deliberate movement that barely contains the charge that’s building in my chest. Zara and I have spent the last few days buried in files, messages, timestamps, and every dirty little thread we could pull.

And we pulled hard. We’ve been meticulous and obsessive, making sure every piece of evidence is airtight before we go live.

No speculation, no doubt. Just cold, brutal truth.

Now, after all that quiet work in the shadows, it’s finally time.

Harper and her pet viper Declan have no idea what’s coming.

But they’re about to find out in real time, with the whole world watching, that the storm they thought they’d outrun has been tracking them all along. And it’s mine.

“They played chess with my fucking life.”

A new window appears behind me, green-screen magic that Zara layered in post, showing Harper’s messages, dozens of them.

Coordinating payouts, media spins, and even a burner phone trail linking funds from an account in the Cayman Islands, one registered under a trust connected to my father, straight into Declan’s consultancy.

“They were all in on it.”

I pause, bracing for impact.

“My father, the ever-silent philanthropist, facilitated the entire circus from behind layers of offshore banking and deniable proxies. While I was bleeding in front of a digital firing squad, he was signing checks. Buying silence, buying betrayal.”

I pause, and my voice softens. It cuts harder that way.

“They used my body as a spectacle. My image, my vulnerability, my trust. All monetized.”

“So here’s my official statement. I’m not here to rebuild my reputation. I’m here to burn theirs.”

I take a breath.

Then, I continue, “To everyone who watched, reposted, commented, and speculated, this is for you too. You weren’t just bystanders. You were co-conspirators in the slow execution of a woman you claimed to admire.”

The screen behind me flashes again with audio clips, wire transfers, contract signatures, and timestamps.

Zara did the work. We traced every digital breadcrumb.

I give her a small smile because she’s been with me all along.

She’s the best friend I needed in this desperate time.

I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for her.

“And I’m not afraid anymore. Not of Evander Vane, Harper, or Declan. Not of what the truth costs.”

I take one step back, my face unflinching.

“This is not a comeback. This is a reckoning.”

The light on the camera dims. I stare for another beat, then let out a slow breath. My whole body buzzes with power.

Zara peeks over the monitor, giving me a thumbs-up, her mouth pulled into a tight, half-impressed smile. The cue cards in her hand are crumpled, untouched, and forgotten.

“You didn’t use a single one of my notes,” she says, more amused than annoyed.

I offer her a tight smile. “Didn’t need them.”

She smiles back, proud and a little misty. She always cries when people win. And tonight, I just might.

The world doesn’t take long to burn.

By the time Silas pulls up outside the studio, my phone is already vibrating nonstop in my palm. Comments, reposts, reaction clips, it’s like watching a tidal wave collapse on itself in real-time. Zara sits next to me, refreshing feeds every few seconds with a vicious gleam in her eye.

Silas steps out of the car before the engine fully stops. His eyes scan me the second I walk out, like he’s taking inventory. Breathing? Standing? Breaking?

“You okay?” he asks in a low and rough voice.

I nod because, honestly, words feel too heavy right now. His hand reaches for mine without hesitation. His fingers close around mine, grounding me and pulling me into the car with him. It’s simple, but it’s everything I need in this moment.

I barely register the ride back to the estate. The adrenaline drains out of me fast, leaving me bone-tired. Silas drives one-handed, never letting go of my fingers. His thumb rubs small circles against my skin, and it’s enough to make my eyes drift shut before we even clear the city limits.

The world keeps exploding while I sleep.

When I wake up, it’s morning. Sunlight cuts through the sheer curtains in soft ribbons, slicing across Silas’s bare chest as he sleeps beside me. His arm is around my waist, holding me like he never plans to let go. I blink, disoriented, and realize I don’t remember getting from the car to my bed.

He must’ve carried me upstairs.

I nestle closer for a moment, letting the warmth of his skin bleed into mine before reality floods back in.

The world outside is chaos.

My phone, abandoned on the nightstand, is still lighting up like a goddamn slot machine. Notifications roll in faster than I can read. And the comments… fuck, the comments. Zara wasn’t kidding when she said it would be a bloodbath.

“Holy shit, she exposed them ALL.”

“Harper’s DONE.”

“Declan’s PR team says this is ‘heavily doctored material.’ LMFAO, okay, bro.”

“I KNEW it. I’ve been saying for months that Declan was shady.”

“Evander Vane: The real villain hiding behind philanthropy.”

“Finally, someone with receipts.”

“Cancel culture my ass. This is called consequences.”

Declan’s management released a blanket denial within an hour of the drop. The usual corporate gaslighting: Fabricated evidence. Selective editing. Vindictive manipulation.

Predictable.

Harper, on the other hand, didn’t even attempt a statement.

She just deleted everything. Gone. Every profile, every brand collab, every carefully curated photo set in Santorini, Paris, and those fucking over-filtered beach yoga sessions.

All wiped, like she never existed. Her absence became the loudest confession of guilt.

Suddenly, the door to my room bursts open without warning, slamming against the wall like it’s got something urgent to say. Zara barrels in, wild-eyed in sweats and clutching her tablet like it’s radioactive.

“You’re not gonna believe this…” she starts, then freezes when she spots Silas still in bed beside me, shirtless and very much not asleep.

He groans low in his throat, burying his face into the pillow like the presence of another human has physically wounded him.

Zara winces, clearly not sorry at all. “Oops. I let myself in,” she says, grinning unapologetically as she comes toward the foot of the bed.

Silas peels his face away from the pillow just long enough to glare at her and raise his middle finger in salute. “You’re the actual worst,” he mutters, his voice husky with sleep.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabs his shirt from the floor, and trudges toward the door without another word, flipping her off again on the way out.

Zara bites down on her laugh, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

I don’t bother holding mine back. I laugh, really laugh, because after everything—the drop, the fallout, the storm we unleashed—this is somehow the exact kind of absurd chaos I need.

That’s when she lifts her tablet again and says, “Okay, seriously. You’re not gonna believe this.”

I raise a brow, already bracing myself.

“There’s a post trending,” she tells me before she reads it out loud. “Sources confirm Harper Eden was found unresponsive last night after an overdose. Suspected suicide attempt. She’s currently hospitalized under private care at an unnamed clinic. No further details have been shared.”

My stomach knots for half a second, but only half. I see it instantly for what it is.

The timing is too convenient, the move too calculated, and the narrative too perfectly positioned to flip public sympathy on a dime. Evander’s fingerprints are all over this.

“She’s not dying,” I whisper, my voice bitter. “She’s disappearing.”