Page 116 of Her Soul to Own

The main deck opens like a movie set—multi-level and draped in string lights and faux-Boho installations. White-draped lounges curve around fire pits, and branded neon signs scream things likeGlow. Grow. Influence.I resist the urge to gag.

Silas opens the door and extends his hand to me, his fingers warm and sure. I slip mine into his, the touch sending a spark up my spine as he helps me out.

The moment I step out of the car, everything stops.

Conversations stall, laughter dies mid-pitch, and phone cameras rise in synchronized precision like a sniper unit with ring lights.

Everyone’s eyes land on me like I’ve walked out of a crypt instead of a black SUV. I stride forward, my heels clicking with surgical intent, the slit of my dress parting with every step like it knows this stage was built for me.

“Is that Lyra?” a voice murmurs.

“I thought she ghosted…” another voice adds.

“She looks… unbothered. That’s terrifying.”

I smile. Barely.

They’re not wrong. I look lethal and untouchable. Like the scandal never touched me, and the hiatus was a flex, not a retreat.

Then, within minutes, Harper appears, floating down the wide stone stairs like a self-anointed goddess in white chiffon with her arms outstretched. Her smile is sharper than the diamonds strangling her wrist, and her dress flutters like purity itself, but her eyes? Those clench around the edges. She wasn’t expecting me. That much is clear. Her grip on the railing tightens for half a second before she pastes on more sparkle.

“Darling,” she chirps, her voice sugar-wrapped cyanide. “You came!”

I pause, letting the moment stretch to make her sweat and uncomfortable. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I respond sweetly, my voice syrupy and venomous. “I prefer to haunt in person.”

Harper’s smile strains, and her teeth clench behind glossed lips. Around us, phones are already back up, capturing every syllable and every glint in my eye like it’s a goddamn Netflix pilot.

She links her arm in mine like we’re best friends who didn’t once plot mutual destruction. “Come, everyone’s dying to see you.”

“Of course they are.”

Inside, the party is a fever dream of curated mayhem. There are champagne fountains beside therapy stationssponsored by wellness apps, microgreens, monogrammed sugar cubes, and corners for “content anxiety decompression” and photogenic panic attacks.

Zara peels away with a conspiratorial wink, off to stir drama and drink with influencers who claim shadow work but haven’t faced a single consequence.

Silas brushes past me as we enter the foyer, close enough to pass something into my Cartier clutch with a soft click.

“Recording’s live,” he murmurs under his breath. “Be careful. Everyone here’s got something to lose.”

“Good,” I whisper. “I plan on collecting debts.”

Then, I glide into the glittering madness, one razor smile at a time.

I make my rounds like a general in enemy territory, methodical, unsmiling, and deadly. I compliment a fitness influencer’s glutes—they are phenomenal, even if she sells snake oil—clink glasses with a self-appointed mental-health guru who once called me “toxicity in heels,” and take a selfie with a lifestyle blogger who posted a Bible verse about betrayal the day after my cancellation.

Each interaction is a performance, and every compliment is a calculated dagger aimed pointedly.

The clutch stays in my hand, always, and I sip only from glasses poured in front of me. I laugh too loudly at a joke I don’t find funny, and I linger near Harper and Declan without acknowledging them, just close enough for the mic to catch every whisper.

They circle like sharks with manicures.

And every smile I give is a blade.

My phone buzzes once.It’s Silas, and the message reads:One word and I end the whole party.

I smirk, angle my heel against a step, and snap a photo.

I reply:Heel to throat ratio optimal. Stand down.

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