Page 114 of Her Soul to Own

“Vengeful and smoking hot? Yeah, probably not,” Zara says, a smile curling in her voice. “You going alone?”

“I wasn’t planning to. But I guess I hadn’t figured that part out yet.”

“Well, lucky for you, I just canceled plans with a man who says ‘crypto’ unironically,” she replies. “I’ll be at your place in an hour. We’ve got to make sure you look like the second coming of wrath in couture.”

I burst into laughter, my first real laugh in days. “You’re such a bad influence.”

“Says the woman plotting a social resurrection in a thigh-high slit.”

We’re both likely grinning, the phone heavy with shared history.

Then, Zara’s voice drops and becomes soft. “I missed you, El.”

I sigh. “I missed you too, Zar.”

We hang up. And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m breathing again.

I press the invitation flat on the coffee table and stare at it like it’s a map to my own damn resurrection.

This isn’t redemption. This is war.

And I’m done bleeding. It’s about time I made someone else hurt for a change.

XXX

Zara shows up exactly fifty-two minutes after we hang up, her giant faux-fur coat trailing behind her like she’s starring in her own private movie. She doesn’t knock on my door. She never does. The door swings open, and she bursts in, her arms full of makeup bags, shoes, and a bottle of pink champagne chilled to near-frostbite.

“Tell me you haven’t put on anything yet,” she says by way of greeting.

“Unless you count mood swings and eye cream, then no,” I deadpan.

She grins. “Perfect. Strip. We’re doing everything from scratch.”

What follows is two hours of chaotic bliss. My bathroom turns into a warzone of highlighters, hair straighteners, perfume samples, and sequins. Zara’s in a soft pink silk robe with her hair up in a messy bun that somehow looks editorial. I’m barefaced and wrapped in a towel with my legs crossed on the vanity counter as she lines up lipsticks like ammunition.

“Tonight,” she says, “you’re not just showing up. You’re declaring war on that bitch.”

We pick the gown together—a slinky midnight blue slip dress from Galliano’s limited line, the kind that costs more than rent and looks like it was stitched together with whispered threats and molten sin. The fabric is bias-cut and like liquid against my skin, flowing over my curves like it’s worshipingthem. With every step, it whispers promises I don’t remember agreeing to. The slit rides high enough to leave very little to the imagination—thigh-baring, dangerous, and fucking shameless. The neckline, on the other hand, plunges with precision, showing just enough cleavage to remind people that I know exactly what I’m doing. It doesn’t beg for attention; it demands it. It says,Look at me. I dare you. And I bite.

We sweep my hair into a tight, elegant updo, severe and regal, the kind of style that looks like it could cut glass. But Zara leaves a few strands loose, curling them so they frame my face with intentional softness, like the memory of something more delicate. The contrast is sharp—the ruthless knot at the back of my head versus the gentle curls that kiss my cheekbones. We mist it with an expensive and vaguely floral perfume, and the scent lingers like a secret. Zara lines my lips with the precision of a sniper, then fills them in with a red so dark that it’s almost black, a color that promises seduction and revenge in equal measure.

I look in the mirror and almost don’t recognize myself.

Lyra Vane is back.

Then there’s a knock, sharp and certain, with a kind of quiet authority that takes up space without raising its voice.

I freeze. My heart kicks once, hard. I already know who it is. Every nerve in my body is on edge, like it recognizes the rhythm, the presence, and the gravity standing on the other side of the door.

I glance at Zara, who rolls her eyes like she already knows how this is going to go. I can’t help but grin. With a breath that doesn’t do a damn thing to steady me, I open the door and step out, letting it click softly behind me.

It’s just me and him now, standing in the quiet hush of the hallway.

He looks like he was carved from shadow and sin in a midnight black suit tailored to brutal perfection and a crisp white shirt undone at the collar just enough to reveal the edge of that ink on his skin, the one that I know maps more secrets than roads. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark and focused like I’m the only thing holding his attention tonight.

And fuck, he smells like cedar, danger, and sex.

His eyes drag over me, slow and lustful, lingering at the deep plunge of my neckline and the way the fabric clings to my hips like a second skin. There’s nothing polite in his gaze—it’s barely leashed hunger, restrained only by whatever thin thread of control he’s holding onto.

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