Page 62

The cursor blinks on my screen like a heartbeat, each pulse daring me to hesitate. But I don’t.

No more masks. No more carefully curated images.

No more bending for people who’d bury me the second my scandal stopped feeding them clicks. I flex my fingers and begin typing the announcement.

The Isola Initiative.

The words feel like fire beneath my fingertips. Sharp and cleansing.

“The Isola Initiative is dedicated to exposing digital exploitation, protecting whistleblowers, and documenting elite abuse cases that powerful people would rather see buried.”

I inhale slowly and keep going, pouring my rage and resolve into the manifesto. Every sentence hits like a hammer, and every word feels like digging my mother out of her grave one truth at a time.

Attached, you will find:

A full link to leaked documents directly implicating Harper’s PR syndicate in premeditated misinformation campaigns, not just against me, but against dozens of influencers, activists, and public figures they deemed “unstable profit risks.”

A fully documented timeline of how my own scandal was architected, from the moment those cameras were planted to the contracts signed behind closed doors to Harper’s burner accounts used to seed the narrative.

My official resignation from every single brand collaboration, sponsorship, and corporate board.

I pause and stare at the screen. My chest tightens with anticipation and intrigue. This is my mother’s blood on digital paper. This is her legacy reborn in my hands.

Finally, I type the last line.

If you unfollow me, I get it. If you stay, buckle up.

Then, I hit post.

The instant it uploads, I feel something inside me crack, and it isn’t weakness. It’s release.

I sit back and watch the wave hit the feed. Thousands of notifications explode across my screen within seconds. Shares, comments, likes, retweets. The vultures don’t know if they should circle or run. And for once, I don’t care what they do.

My phone buzzes. It’s Zara.

I swipe to answer. “You're awake early,” I say.

“Lyra. Holy. Fucking. Shit.” Zara’s voice is breathless, buzzing with both panic and awe. “You actually did it. You nuked your entire existence in one post.”

“Feels good,” I say, my voice calm but laced with adrenaline.

“Good? Girl, you just set the entire goddamn internet on fire. People are losing their minds.” I hear furious typing in the background.

“Half your old sponsors are panicking, PR execs are scrambling to figure out how much of this is real, and I just got a DM from a news editor at The Guardian who wants an exclusive interview.”

“They’re not getting one,” I say flatly.

“Of course not. You don’t need them anymore,” Zara says with a laugh. “But holy hell, Lyra, you’re actually going to do it. You’re going to break him.”

“That’s the point. This isn’t about saving my career anymore. It’s about making sure he never controls anyone again.”

Zara sighs softly, her voice dropping when she mutters, “You know he’s going to retaliate.”

“Let him,” I reply fiercely.

“And Silas? How’s he holding up?”

I glance over my shoulder at the closed bedroom door, where I know he’s still asleep.

The man hasn’t left my side in days. With his bruised knuckles and the haunted look in his eyes after what happened in this house, he’s ready for this war in ways I could never be.

And knowing he’s there… it changes everything.

“He’s ready. We both are,” I say softly.

“You’re terrifying, Vane,” Zara whispers with a tone of pride in her voice. “And I fucking love you for it.”

“I love you too. Get some sleep. We’re just getting started.”

I hang up and stare back at the screen. The number of views is climbing so fast that it’s almost surreal.

The world is watching now.

Good.

Let them.

XXX

The sun hangs low by the time I finally step back into my bedroom.

The house is still quiet. Silas is somewhere nearby, probably coordinating security with Noah again, while Zara feeds the media storm like the genius little chaos gremlin she is.

But me? I have something else to do before the next battle begins.

Closure.

The walk-in closet stares at me like a vault full of ghosts.

I pause for a moment at the threshold, my fingers tracing the edge of the heavy white door.

For years, this was my sanctuary. My temple.

My disguise. The place where I transformed myself into whatever version the world wanted.

Lyra, the socialite. Lyra, the influencer.

Lyra, the obedient daughter in designer gowns.

Well, not anymore. I exhale slowly and step inside.

The scent hits me immediately. Expensive perfume, floral notes, vanilla, amber, and a hint of something sugary that once clung to my skin like approval.

The lights glow softly along the rows of shelves, illuminating color-coded racks of silk, crepe, satin, and cashmere.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars in fabric and stitching. A lifetime built from labels.

Gucci. Givenchy. Chanel. Dior. Saint Laurent.

Each one feels like a shard of my past self staring back at me.

I run my hand along the garments, the fabrics smooth and cool beneath my fingers. I could list every piece from memory. Where I wore it, who complimented it, and how many photographers circled me like vultures when I stepped out in it.

My fingers pause on a deep emerald Givenchy gown.

The neckline plunges low, the fabric hugging every curve perfectly.

I wore it two years ago at one of my father’s charity galas—the one hosted at The Baymore for that bullshit philanthropic foundation he used to parade in front of cameras.

I remember standing on that marble staircase under crystal chandeliers, with flashes going off and journalists shouting my name.

I remember how powerful I felt. Untouchable, desired, and worshiped.

But underneath the diamond smile, I was rotting inside. Merely performing and pretending.

Even then, I knew.

I gently tug the dress off the hanger, folding it with care and laying it inside the first velvet-lined box beside me.

I move down the racks with a quiet efficiency, pulling piece after piece from the hangers.

The blood-red Tom Ford sheath I wore to the Met afterparty.

The Balmain power suit that I thought made me look fierce enough to sit across from venture capitalists twice my age.

The beaded Valentino mini I wore when Harper convinced me to play the wild heiress for the press.

It’s all going.

Every single carefully engineered mask.

I work methodically, folding, wrapping, and boxing. The fabrics swish softly with every movement. It almost feels like wrapping corpses for burial, laying my old selves to rest one designer label at a time.

A soft laugh escapes my lips, bitter and sharp. My father would never come here himself. No. He’s too proud, too slick, too much of a coward. He’ll send proxies and threats and men with guns. But he won’t face me like a man.

He’s forgotten who I am.

He taught me to be his perfect daughter. His weapon. His commodity. He thought he could destroy me without consequence.

Now he’ll see what happens when you turn your weapon against you.

As I reach the last row of shelves, my eyes fall on the final box, tucked low in the far corner. It’s small, plain, and unassuming. My pulse slows as I crouch down and pull it carefully into the light.

The lid slides open, and there they are.

My mother’s ballet flats.

Soft, worn leather, the stitching frayed at the toes, faded blush pink, long since dulled by years of use. She used to wear them when she painted late into the night, or when she’d sneak me into the garden so we could sit in the moonlight, away from his eyes.

They don’t sparkle. They don’t scream status. But they’re real.

I swallow hard, a sudden knot catching in my throat.

This is who she was beneath all the tailored suits and carefully curated smiles he forced her to wear. This is who she tried to remain, even while the mansion closed in around her like a cage.

Without thinking, I slip them onto my feet.

They fit perfectly. Soft. Quiet. Steady.

I rise, feeling the difference immediately. No towering heels, no forced posture. Just me, flat on the ground and grounded in my own skin for the first time in years.

Turns out I don’t need six-inch heels to crush a man’s throat.

I glance around the room one last time. I glance at the rows of empty hangers and at the polished marble, and I inhale the faint scent of perfume still lingering in the air. This is the room that once owned me.

But not anymore.

The boxes are stacked neatly near the door, ready for donation. Some consignment boutique somewhere will flip them for insane profits, and some desperate influencer will snatch them up like sacred relics. Let them. They’re relics of a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.

I walk out of the closet for the last time, my steps silent, measured. Not because I’m trying to sneak away from my father’s reach, but because I’m done letting him hear my heels echo down his gilded halls.

He won’t come to me.

So I’ll go to him.

I’m not waiting for him to make his next move. The only person who still thinks he holds the upper hand is him.

And that’s his first mistake.

XXX

I stand at the podium, the soft hum of broadcast equipment surrounding me like a low, steady heartbeat.

The air is cool inside the studio, but my palms are warm where they rest lightly on either side of the sleek black surface.

The bright LED lights overhead bathe me in a sterile glow.

The cameras are rolling. The world is watching. Again. But not like before.

This time, I’m not the product. I’m the fucking reckoning.