Page 137 of Her Soul to Own

Evander will open the crate in a few hours.

He’ll see the bag.

He’ll open it.

He’ll see what’s left of his men.

He’ll understand exactly how close he came tonight. And exactly what will happen if he ever tries again.

I pull my phone from my pocket and open the secondary secure line. The one Evander’s team still monitors.

This time, there’s no encryption. No hiding.

I record the message with my voice low and almost threatening, my rage sharpened into ice. “If you come for heragain, I won’t just take your empire. I’ll return her to you in a coffin. After I burn everything you’ve ever built.”

Then, I send it.

No reply comes.

The birds keep singing as the sun rises, casting long shadows across the bloodstained marble. Behind me, the estate smolders, not from fire, but from war declared.

And this time, there will be no survivors.

Chapter 36 – Lyra – Ashes and Inheritance

The air smells like expensive espresso and fake lavender. It’s the kind of mix that makes my skin crawl, but I breathe it in anyway. I’m standing in front of Cafe La Rue, the glass-and-brass little shrine to the perfectly curated life I used to lead. Nestled between two overpriced perfumeries, it’s still the same place where influencers would pose for hours while pretending they didn’t care about being photographed.

But now it feels like I’m stepping into a graveyard.

I push open the door, and the chime overhead rings like a fucking funeral bell. Heads turn instantly, and their eyes rake over me like vultures circling something fresh. I feel their stares like pricks along my skin—curiosity, judgment, and thinly veiled fear. They know who I am. Or who I was.

The ghost of glam past.

My heels click softly on the marble floor as I move forward, though there are no towering Louboutin stilettos and no diamonds screaming for attention today. Just a simple black crepe dress that hugs my frame like a second skin, elegant, severe, and unyielding. It’s sleeveless with a high neckline. No jewelry. No distractions. The only color is the blood-red slash of lipstick on my lips, like a warning sign they’re too stupid to read.

They only mourn you when you stop being useful.

Whispers bloom like weeds around me. The same people who reposted my downfall can’t look away now as I glide past them with my chin high and back straight, every inch the woman they failed to bury. I don’t flinch. I let them have their little gasps, their wide eyes, and their pathetic whispers.

The hostess recognizes me immediately but says nothing. She just nods and gestures toward the private alcove in the back, the one I reserved under no name at all.

Fiona Graves is already waiting.

She’s exactly how I remember her from the few underground interviews we danced around before. She’s in her early forties with a sharp jaw, short-cropped hair dyed steel gray, and an androgynous tailored suit that looks like it cost more than some of these bitches’ entire closets. Her eyes cut through the dim lighting like blades.

“You’re late,” she says, raising one brow.

“You’re early,” I counter, sliding into the seat across from her.

The table smells faintly of disinfectant and bourbon. She already has a glass poured, neat. I ask for water, partially because my stomach is still recovering from the drugged haze of two nights ago, but mostly because I want my mind sharp for this.

“You still have a way of owning a room,” Fiona murmurs, smirking. “Even when it wants to eat you alive.”

“Let them watch,” I say, my voice flat. “I want them to remember what’s coming.”

Just then, the server approaches with careful steps and places my glass of water on the table with the kind of precision usually reserved for explosives. His hands tremble slightly, his eyes flicking up to meet mine, looking wide, uncertain, and maybe even a little afraid. He’s young, probably new, and definitely not trained for this kind of tension.

I catch his gaze and offer him a slow, composed smile. It’s not cruel, but not kind either. It’s just enough to let him know I see him, and that he should keep moving.

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