Page 113 of Her Soul to Own

We belt him in, adjust his posture, and tuck a decoy drive into the compartment — nothing on it but static and junk code. The real one disappears into Noah’s pocket. Then, I quickly wipe the dashboard. Noah fishes out the cigarette still clutched in his hand and stubs it out. Blood is pooling beneath his shirt, some internal rupture from the drug’s violence, but to anyone driving past, he just looks like another guy asleep in his car after a bad night.

“You think anyone will ask questions?” I mutter.

Noah steps back. “Not the kind who matter.”

I close the car door gently like I’m tucking in a child. The door latches with a quietclick, final and unforgiving.

As we walk away, the warehouse looms behind us like a sentinel of the forgotten.

This wasn’t justice. Justice is too clean for men like us. This was balance. And the scale’s not done tipping yet.

Chapter 30 – Lyra – A Fire in Silk

The envelope is thick and pretentious, and it smells like a fucking department store perfume counter. Of course it does. Harper wouldn’t know subtlety if it kicked her in the face with a six-inch Louboutin.

I stare at the embossed gold lettering like it’s a curse in cursive.Miraval Cliffs Resort cordially invites you…Blah blah blah. Champagne. “Influencer Experience.” Translation? Vanity circus meets desperate reputation rehab. It’s not an invite. It’s a fucking challenge.

My fingers hesitate over the paper and then brush the wax seal like it might burn me. Maybe it already has. My name in calligraphy,Miss Lyra Vane, mocks me like it belongs to someone who still matters.

Besides the video, I haven’t posted normally for weeks. Not a photo, not a cryptic story, not even a blackout square. I left the internet on read. Let them stew. Let the whispers multiply like rats in the walls. They wanted me cancelled? Cool. I went on a hiatus instead.

But it’s also… lonely. It’s claustrophobic. It’s the kind of quiet that echoes in my head instead of being soothing. Every morning I wake up hoping to feel normal again, and every night I drink just enough to blur the sharp edges. I’ve been repeating the same unhealthy cycle, and looking at the envelope, I realize nobody actually cares.

The sun slices across my living room in this almost perfect angle that makes everything look like an Instagram filter gone wrong. I sit barefoot on the floor in an old band tee and underwear, my legs splayed like I own the space, which I do. Half a bottle of overpriced Malbec sweats on the table beside me.

I twirl the invite between my fingers. It glints, gaudy and fake. Just like Harper.

I know why she sent it. It’s not a peace offering. It’s a trap. She doesn’t think I’ll show. Hell, she’s counting on it. That’s why she made the invite smell like a damn perfume ad, something to get tossed in the trash with the last shreds of my public image.

But here’s the thing. I’m ready for a challenge. I’m fucking tired of being everyone’s pawn.

Do I want to go? Hell no. The thought alone makes my stomach churn. My pulse stutters every time I imagine walking through those doors and seeing the cameras, eyes, and fake smiles that are sharper than switchblades.

I’m scared.Fuck, I’m scared. What if they laugh? What if they whisper? What if no one says anything at all, like I don’t even exist anymore?

But hiding in my room and drinking wine until my legs forget how to hold me up isn’t living. It’s not even surviving. It’s rotting with pretty pillows and blackout curtains.

And what better way to shove a middle finger in the face of the whole curated circus than to crash Harper’s glitter-drenched rehab-for-your-reputation gala? The place where everyone’s pretending they’re not two seconds from clawing each other’s eyes out over likes and affiliate codes as though nothing matters more than that.

My phone buzzes. It’s Zara. She’s been texting me constantly, but I haven’t replied. I think it’s time I resurrect my friendship.

I bite my lip and hit dial.

“Took you long enough,” she answers, her voice warm and a little scratchy from too many late nights and overpriced vape pens. It’s the voice of someone who knows too much yet still cares anyway.

“You wouldn’t believe what just arrived,” I say, eyeing the invitation like it’s a loaded gun with glitter accents.

“Let me guess,” she drawls. “Gold embossed? Smells like synthetic vanilla and influencer desperation?”

I snort. “Exactly. It’s practically a scented threat. From Harper.”

Zara groans. “God, that woman has the subtlety of a chainsaw in a slip dress. So what are you thinking?”

I pause, staring at the wax seal like it might open its eyes and bite me. “I’m thinking I need to stop rotting in here. I need to show up and prove I’m not dead. And not afraid…”

She pauses in thought before replying, “Harper probably only sent it to get credit for being inclusive and considerate, knowing damn well you wouldn’t actually come.”

“That’s what makes it so tempting,” I say. “She’s not ready to see me. Not like this.”

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