Page 12 of Her Soul to Own

We dove headfirst into the commotion, messy dorm drama, frat parties where the floor was sticky with spilled beer, and takeout from places we’d never dare walk past in daylight. There were dance-floor confessions in smoky underground clubs, lipsticks smudged, and secrets shouted over basslines. We got our hearts broken by boys with guitars and eyes that promised too much. We healed over corner booth brunches and too many fries.

And for those few years, I wasn’tLyra Vane,heiress to a concrete-and-steel empire and the face of a brand I never asked to carry. I was just a girl with cheap eyeliner and oversized dreams, chasing sunrises over East River rooftops and daring the city to see me,reallysee me, for who I was, not what my last name could buy.

Sometimes, I miss her. That version of me. I miss the girl who didn’t flinch when someone called her name. The one who could ride the subway alone at midnight, laugh without scanning the room, and walk down a street without a security detail shadowing her every step. The girl who believed freedom wasn’t a luxury but a given.

She felt real. And right now, she feels like a ghost I can’t quite touch.

But here in Willowridge, I’m not a girl. I’m a brand. A headline in heels. A legacy dressed in red, watched by too many eyes, and followed by the quiet that feels too heavy to be anything but dangerous.

Zara glances up as I slide into the booth and take the seat across from her. She’s mid-sipping her cinnamon latte, andthere’s a buttery croissant torn in half on the plate in front of her. “Nice coat,” she comments.

I smirk. “Subtlety’s for people with less impressive trauma.”

Her eyes crinkle. “And the sunglasses?”

“Just trying to avoid spontaneous combustion from all the righteous stares.”

Zara doesn’t laugh. Her gaze sharpens as she leans in. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Zar. Just bored.”

She lifts a brow. “Is that what we’re calling captivity now?”

I snort. “Please. I’m not Rapunzel. I’m just rich and restless.”

I don’t mention the SUV parked discreetly a block away. Or the man inside it. He’s the last thing I want on my mind.

I don’t mention the fact that I haven’t slept in days, not really. Not since the wine. Not since I made a spectacle of myself on purpose and walked away without looking back, because looking back might have made it real.

Zara sips her drink and studies me. “You look like hell. Gorgeous hell, but still.”

“Aww, say it again. Maybe this time I’ll believe it.”

“You should’ve stayed in New York,” Zara tells me.

I shrug, even though the idea punches me in the ribs. “I came back because of Dad, you know that. There’s no way in hell he would’ve let me stay away for longer. And now Daddy Dearest has turned the house into Fort Fucking Knox.”

Zara’s lips press tightly. “You didn’t tell me it wasthatbad.”

“I didn’t tell you a lot of things,” I say tiredly.

Like the man in black who watches me without blinking, the cameras in my room, and the way my skin still prickles at the memory of his voice saying,Always.

But I can’t say any of that because I don’t want to bring Zara down with me.

So instead, I smile. And I lie. And I sip my overpriced coffee like I’m not cracking under walls and secrets.

Because in Willowridge, appearances matter. Even when they’re the only thing holding you together.

After coffee, Zara and I stroll down Main like we’re just two girls without a care in the world. Casual. Effortless. Practiced.

The wind teases the hem of my coat as we pass the florist, rows of baby’s breath and overpriced flowers spilling onto the sidewalk. I toss a glance at the antique shop’s window display, some gilded mirror catching the light just right. Then there’s the bookstore. Old ivy creeps along its brick spine like it’s strangling secrets out of the mortar. It has always been my favorite.

Zara’s talking about something—her Pilates instructor’s obsession with red wine and crystals, I think, but I barely register it. My fingers slip my phone from my coat pocket. I’m not exactly subtle, and I don’t care to be.

I “accidentally” drop it near the curb. It hits the ground with a satisfying crack, just loud enough to make Zara pause.

“You good?” she calls over her shoulder.

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