Page 6

The thing about small towns is that they don’t forget. Not your name. Not your scandals. Not even what you wore last Sunday when you snuck into church five minutes late and sat in the back pew pretending to pray while thinking about revenge.

Downtown Willowridge is exactly as I remember it since childhood. It’s too clean, too quiet, and just passive-aggressive enough to make my blood itch. With white picket fences, hanging flower baskets, and that Stepford charm masking judgment so thick it might as well be on the welcome sign.

I swing open the door of the Willow Bean Café like I own the place, which, technically, I probably do.

Dad’s investments are everywhere in this town, like tentacles in a very polite horror movie.

I saunter to the counter, peel off my sunglasses just enough to make eye contact with the barista—he’s new, maybe nineteen, and trying hard not to look impressed—and order my usual: oat milk latte, extra hot, with one pump of vanilla. No whip. No bullshit.

While they work on it, I tap my nails against the counter and pretend not to notice the whispers doubling behind me. Once the drink lands on the pick-up bar, I grab it and pivot with a smile that says fuck your judgment, and your Pinterest weddings too before strutting toward the corner booth.

I smile. Just enough to feed the rumor mill without giving anything away. I’ve always been good at that, looking like I’m in control while barely holding it together underneath. I look around, trying to find Zara amidst the crowd.

Silas was with me on the drive here. Sitting shotgun like he belonged there, like this town couldn’t touch him even if it tried. He didn’t come inside, of course not. That would’ve been too obvious. But I know he’s watching. He has to be.

And despite myself, I notice things I shouldn’t.

I notice the way his dark brown hair is always cut just right, sharp and clean, with those streaks of gray at his temples, which only make him look more dangerous than old.

He’s been here for more than a week now, and his hair hasn’t grown an inch.

His skin is tan, calloused, and marked by scars on his hands and arms, like history carved into flesh.

Not to mention those icy steel-blue eyes of his that are always on me.

His forearms are veined, hands calloused—built for combat, not comfort or luxury.

He’s a man who was made to protect. Or destroy. Probably both.

And yeah… he’s handsome. Fuck him for that.

Zara’s already seated with her hands curled around her cinnamon latte like it’s a lifeline. She’s wearing a cream sweater, her golden curls half-tucked into a messy bun that somehow makes her look more put together than anyone else in here. Always did.

We met in high school. We were co-captains of the cheer team, ruling the pep rallies and hallway politics like queens without crowns.

Zara was the only one who could match my snark for snark and still talk me down when I wanted to torch the whole place to the ground.

We weren’t just close; we were a package deal. One name rarely came without the other.

When it came time for college, there was never any doubt.

NYU or bust. It wasn’t just a dream; it was the plan.

We mapped it out like it was a campaign strategy: dorm room aesthetics down to the fairy lights and faux-fur throw pillows, a curated list of clubs we’d pretend to care about but never actually attend, and an unspoken vow to make New York ours.

She was more than just my roommate. She was my ride-or-die, my tequila-fueled therapist, the person who knew every version of my laugh and the exact tone my voice took when I was lying to myself.

We dove headfirst into the commotion, messy dorm drama, frat parties where the floor was sticky with spilled beer, and takeout from places we’d never dare walk past in daylight.

There were dance-floor confessions in smoky underground clubs, lipsticks smudged, and secrets shouted over basslines.

We got our hearts broken by boys with guitars and eyes that promised too much.

We healed over corner booth brunches and too many fries.

And for those few years, I wasn’t Lyra Vane, heiress to a concrete-and-steel empire and the face of a brand I never asked to carry.

I was just a girl with cheap eyeliner and oversized dreams, chasing sunrises over East River rooftops and daring the city to see me, really see me, for who I was, not what my last name could buy.

Sometimes, I miss her. That version of me.

I miss the girl who didn’t flinch when someone called her name.

The one who could ride the subway alone at midnight, laugh without scanning the room, and walk down a street without a security detail shadowing her every step.

The girl who believed freedom wasn’t a luxury but a given.

She felt real. And right now, she feels like a ghost I can’t quite touch.

But here in Willowridge, I’m not a girl. I’m a brand. A headline in heels. A legacy dressed in red, watched by too many eyes, and followed by the quiet that feels too heavy to be anything but dangerous.

Zara glances up as I slide into the booth and take the seat across from her. She’s mid-sipping her cinnamon latte, and there’s a buttery croissant torn in half on the plate in front of her. “Nice coat,” she comments.

I smirk. “Subtlety’s for people with less impressive trauma.”

Her eyes crinkle. “And the sunglasses?”

“Just trying to avoid spontaneous combustion from all the righteous stares.”

Zara doesn’t laugh. Her gaze sharpens as she leans in. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Zar. Just bored.”

She lifts a brow. “Is that what we’re calling captivity now?”

I snort. “Please. I’m not Rapunzel. I’m just rich and restless.”

I don’t mention the SUV parked discreetly a block away. Or the man inside it. He’s the last thing I want on my mind.

I don’t mention the fact that I haven’t slept in days, not really. Not since the wine. Not since I made a spectacle of myself on purpose and walked away without looking back, because looking back might have made it real.

Zara sips her drink and studies me. “You look like hell. Gorgeous hell, but still.”

“Aww, say it again. Maybe this time I’ll believe it.”

“You should’ve stayed in New York,” Zara tells me.

I shrug, even though the idea punches me in the ribs. “I came back because of Dad, you know that. There’s no way in hell he would’ve let me stay away for longer. And now Daddy Dearest has turned the house into Fort Fucking Knox.”

Zara’s lips press tightly. “You didn’t tell me it was that bad.”

“I didn’t tell you a lot of things,” I say tiredly.

Like the man in black who watches me without blinking, the cameras in my room, and the way my skin still prickles at the memory of his voice saying, Always.

But I can’t say any of that because I don’t want to bring Zara down with me.

So instead, I smile. And I lie. And I sip my overpriced coffee like I’m not cracking under walls and secrets.

Because in Willowridge, appearances matter. Even when they’re the only thing holding you together.

After coffee, Zara and I stroll down Main like we’re just two girls without a care in the world. Casual. Effortless. Practiced.

The wind teases the hem of my coat as we pass the florist, rows of baby’s breath and overpriced flowers spilling onto the sidewalk.

I toss a glance at the antique shop’s window display, some gilded mirror catching the light just right.

Then there’s the bookstore. Old ivy creeps along its brick spine like it’s strangling secrets out of the mortar. It has always been my favorite.

Zara’s talking about something—her Pilates instructor’s obsession with red wine and crystals, I think, but I barely register it. My fingers slip my phone from my coat pocket. I’m not exactly subtle, and I don’t care to be.

I “accidentally” drop it near the curb. It hits the ground with a satisfying crack, just loud enough to make Zara pause.

“You good?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Yeah, go ahead,” I say, bending to scoop it up. “I’m just gonna check out that bookshop for a sec. You go on ahead.”

She gives me a look but keeps walking. She hates going to the bookstore with me, knowing I can spend hours in there.

Good girl.

I duck inside, the little bell above the door chiming with a soft, old-fashioned ding that feels way too wholesome for what I’m about to do. The scent of dust, aged paper, and pine-scented candle wax hits me like nostalgia laced with mischief.

I weave between the tall shelves until I find the blind spot I remembered, near the poetry section, where the cameras don’t quite reach. The air is warmer back here, the light dimmer, filtered through stained glass and dust motes.

Perfect.

I pull out my phone, tap into Messages, and scroll until I find the name: Wesley .

Harmless. Pretty. Eager.

A flirtation I shelved before things got too boring.

But today, he’s a spark I want to light.

“Hey. Meet me at Solace Books in 10 mins. You’ll like the reason. xx”

I drop my phone back in my coat, then slide a book titled The Chaos of Craving from the shelf. Fitting.

My fingers brush the edge of the page like I’m caressing a secret.

My heart is doing something it hasn’t in days. It’s racing from anticipation. A pulse of rebellion in my wrist, my throat, between my thighs.

Five minutes pass.

Then ten.

The door chimes again.

And there he is.

Wesley Archer. Tall, sandy-blond, with a boy-next-door grin that made half the cheer squad fall in love junior year. He’s the kind of guy who still wears cologne to the gym and says things like “You deserve better” and almost means it.

His eyes light up when he sees me. Predictable. Delicious. Easy.

“Lyra,” he says, all charm and casual confidence. “Is this a trap or a fantasy?”

“Depends on how good you’ve been,” I purr, stepping just a little too close. Not touching, but just enough to suggest I might.