Page 1 of Her Soul to Own

Chapter 1 – Lyra - The Ultimatum

I run like I’m being chased.

Not by a man, or a beast, or even a shadow. No, what hunts me is far worse. Expectation, control, and a last name so heavy that it suffocates me.

The trail carves through the forest behind Vane Estate, a curated slice of wilderness that’s more about the aesthetics than functionality. Mist curls around the tree trunks like fingers, cool and wet against my flushed skin. My ponytail whips behind me while my earbuds blast distorted basslines, and for a few brief and glorious minutes, I’m free. Free to run as fast as I want and as far as I want within these walls.

Until I’m not.

I stop at our greenhouse behind the main house. The staff stopped maintaining it years ago. Its glass panes are fogged with age, ivy swallowing its bones. Thick clusters of moss crawl up the walls like slow-moving tides. Vines dangle from the rusted rafters, knotted with forgotten blooms turned to brittle husks. The floor is a soft chaos of damp soil and fallen leaves, overrun with spindly plants that grew wild in the silence. A cracked terra-cotta pot lies on its side, half-buried in ferns. The air is heavy with the scent of green rot and dust, sweet and musty.

This is my place. The only ruin they haven’t tried to sanitize. I bend to stretch, the muscles in my legs burning pleasantly. And still, I don’t take my eyes off the house.

That forbidding, alabaster monstrosity with its endless windows and camera-blind corners. It watches me like it’s alive and breathing. If it were a person, it’d probably have the nastiest judging expressions. It knows I’ll never really escape. No matter how much I try.

“This is the last morning I’ll ever be alone,” I whisper as I look around the greenhouse.

I walk back, slower. My legs are reluctant to take me back, and I’d stay outside for longer if it weren’t so dang cold. The music in my ears suddenly feels intrusive, so I kill it. I pull out my wired earphones from my ears and loop them around my neck.

I step toward the entrance of the house and open the door. The house opens to the living room glass, where my father likes to pretend we’re a normal family. There are hardwood floors, immaculate white furniture, and enough orchids to host a goddamn wedding. He’s already there and dressed like he’s off to a meeting, sitting in his perfect posture. His cufflinks probably cost more than some people’s tuition. The espresso in his hand makes him look like he’s posing for a Forbes cover.

And there it is. The envelope. The fucking envelope.

“Another one?” I ask, peeling off my sweatshirt, damp with sweat. I can’t believe he found it before I had a chance to get rid of it. I haven’t received one in days, and of course, I get one while my dad’s here. I drop my smelly sweatshirt on one of the perfectly white chairs on purpose. His eye twitches, but he stays quiet.

Evander Vane is every inch the empire he built. Unshakable, meticulously controlled, and shaped by an almost pathological need for order. He carries himself with the kind of polished restraint that demands silence when he enters a room. His trim beard and precisely combed silver hair are never out of place, maintained with the same discipline he applies to every aspect of his life. His eyes, cold and calculating, miss nothing. They scan every situation for weakness, every person for advantage. My father doesn’t do casual. He doesn’t slouch, laugh easily, or engage in small talk. Emotions, to him, are indulgences best left to the weak. Warmth is not in his vocabulary. Praiseis rare and always conditional. Even affection is something he rations out, if at all, like a scarce resource. He is not a man who loves openly, but rather one who commands, measures worth in results, and sees vulnerability as a liability. To the world, he is a model of composure and success. To me, he is a fortress—imposing, impenetrable, and impossible to impress.

“This one’s different,” he says, his voice all calm doom.

“They always are,” I mutter, flopping onto the seat across from him.Here comes another lecture.

He doesn’t try to argue. Instead, he slides the envelope toward me with one pointed finger. I open it like it’s junk mail. Honestly, it should be.Who even uses physical mail these days? If you want to send me threats, do that on my email or DM’s.

The photo shows me in bed with naked shoulders and my mouth slightly open, eyes closed. Intimate. Vulnerable.Shit. It’s personal in a way that makes my spine go rigid. There’s a lock of my hair taped to the corner. Well, this is definitely new.

The message below it is short and sharp:She doesn’t belong to you anymore.

My stomach flips. “Jesus. What the fuck? How long have you been taking them away for?” I ask, quieter than I want to be.

His eyes flick to mine. “Weeks.”

“Seriously?” I slap the envelope down. “And you didn’t think to give me a heads-up before the creep got close enough to play barber?”

“I needed confirmation,” he says, his voice tight.

“No, you needed fucking control. As always.”

“Language,” he growls, narrowing his eyes.

He stands and starts pacing like we’re at some Pentagon briefing. “This is not just a threat, Lyra. It’s an escalation.”

“Oh, congratulations. Took you long enough to notice.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut as if holding something back. “I’ve hired someone. He’s discreetand effective. He also has a military background. I know him from back in the day. He’ll be here by tonight.”

I laugh, short and sharp. “What, like a fucking hitman?”

“A protection specialist. Silas Creed. I don’t trust a lot of people, but he can be trusted.”

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